


Stormseeker: Scrolls of Brutality

by Serriya (Keolah)



Series: Codex Veritatum [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls Online, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, World of Warcraft
Genre: Dark Humor, Dimension Travel, F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi, Present Tense, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28494474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keolah/pseuds/Serriya
Summary: In order to prevent time breaches that began in the mid Second Era, the new Sheogorath and his faithful companions have traveled back in time from the late Third Era. As it turns out, the mid Second Era was much more eventful than any of them realized, and Molag Bal is liable to really piss off the Madgod by messing with his favorite mortals.
Relationships: Gellert Grindelwald/Original Male Character, Lyris Titanborn/Female Vestige
Series: Codex Veritatum [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/622763
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Someone Else's Story

My name is… you know, actually, I have quite a lot of names. Most of them aren’t really relevant at the moment. You might know me as Sheogorath, but I go by Lexen to my friends. I’ve got quite a lot of tedious titles, too, so I won’t bore you with those, either. This isn’t even my story, anyway. This is mostly the story of quite a lot of people who aren’t me.

Front and center, here are our daring heroes: Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter. They’re my twin first cousins once removed, twenty-two years old and just out of adventuring school. I totally started up an adventuring school just for them. They’re my dear favorite mortals and it’s tough to see them getting ready to go out into the world for real adventures and not just scamps I’d put in caves for them to beat up as practice.

There’s a lot to recap here and you’re probably going to be a bit lost if you haven’t been following my tales so far, but I’ll try to summarize. And probably get kicked by one of my friends if I wind up making the summary longer than any of those tales.

We’re currently in the mid-Second Era investigating temporal anomalies that had cropped up in the latest timeline, rendering the world increasingly unstable. And—

“No, you’re getting kicked _now_ ,” Abraxas grumbles. “Or at least you would if I had anything to kick. You called us to a meeting and now you’re just narrating at the air and won’t even bother to manifest an avatar?”

Right, sorry.

“The table is technically him, too,” Luna says brightly. “You can just kick that instead.”

The Imperial man plants a foot on the leg of the war table as my other friends snicker around the room. As lazy as I’m feeling, they do have a point. I pull together the form of a Breton man into the war room. Even that seems like a lot of effort at the moment. All the crap that happened in the Third Era took me out of me than I’m willing to admit.

“You just admitted it,” Abraxas says.

“I wasn’t actually speaking aloud!” I protest.

“You were speaking mentally into all our heads,” Abraxas says. “You could think more quietly if you weren’t intending on speaking to us.”

“I’m just trying to hook into the Archive recording system,” I say. “Just give me a moment.”

“I do have work to do, you know,” Abraxas says. “I _am_ still the Duke of Dementia and now I have to convince everyone that I’m apparently now an Imperial after I already managed to convince them I was a Khajiit after they met me as an Altmer. So if we can get this meeting over with so I can get back to that, that would be fabulous.”

“Should I feel bad that I can’t hear your narration?” Dranney asks.

“You’re not missing much,” Rispy says with a smirk.

“What are our plans?” Gellert asks.

“We’re going to need to get those time breaches sealed and find the source of the anomalies,” I say. “We’re here to discuss what we know of the time period.”

“The books are distressingly sparse on details regarding the mid-Second Era,” Hermione says.

“And Sotha Sil’s memories of the period were sabotaged, so there is no help from that angle either,” Tom adds.

I frown deeply at the magic map of Tamriel as I notice something. “Honestly, I’m not sure how important those details even are.” I gesture toward the map, now no longer shifting constantly but… wrong. Different. “Does something about this map seem off to you?”

Gellert comes over and peers at it, frowning. “Aside from the fact that it’s stable again?”

“Let me bring up a snapshot of the first scan we made once we got it working.” I overlay the old map above it to allow for an easy comparison.

“All that and the map is _still_ different?” Gellert says. “Damn, I thought we’d fixed that!”

I snort softly. “No, we just came back to a point where we _might_ be able to fix that. We’ve made quite a mess of things, though.”

“I honestly don’t think we even wound up in the past of the same timeline,” I say with a sigh. “We went about this all wrong.”

“The question is, can we fix it from here?” Gellert asks.

“That’s what we’re going to need to find out,” I say. “I don’t even know anymore. I’m tired.”

“That’s because you opened a gate large enough to steal a giant tree from Tamriel,” Gellert says. “And then flew through time.”

“I regret nothing,” I say.

“Then we will head out into the world and gather information,” Tom says. “We have _our own_ memories of the time period, at least. The memories of the people we merged into when we came back in time.”

“You shouldn’t have merged into anyone if we’d done it properly,” I say. “It’s a sign that we _already_ changed the timeline just by entering it instead of entering it as ourselves.” I sigh. “What common knowledge can you guys share about the time period at least?”

“The Three Banners War is in full swing,” Tom says. “There are three alliances, called the Ebonheart Pact, the Daggerfall Covenant, and the Aldmeri Dominion. Molag Bal is taking advantage of the weakened liminal barriers to invade Tamriel, as one does.”

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Sirius puts in, “but _my_ memories of this time period are… sketchy. Yes, I merged into a Dunmer named Siris Moren. I have those memories. They’re… kind of fading like a dream, though.”

“Not just that,” Luna adds. “My memories are… inconsistent. They’re a bit of a jumble and don’t really make sense.”

There are mumbles of agreement around the table.

“Maybe it’s a sign that those people weren’t supposed to exist in the first place,” I say. “I mean, not ‘supposed’ to, nothing is ‘supposed’ to happen, but it’s highly unlikely that the specific set of people you guys became actually existed in this time period before our arrival here.”

“In the grand scheme of things, the lives of a handful of people can either matter not at all or quite a lot,” Tom says. “But while it’s _possible_ that these people existed beforehand, you are correct that it seems like an unlikely coincidence that they would up being so much like us.” Tom sighs. “For one thing, it’s quite clear that we have a full-blown Dragon Break on our hands here.”

“Agreed,” I say. “The temporal anomalies were the first most obvious sign of that.”

“The continuity of time is broken and I don’t think we can even trust our own memories,” Tom says.

“Still, it might be best to get used to referring to us by our new names,” Sirius says. “People in the first timeline we were in were already looking oddly at us calling an Orc ‘Remus’ instead of his actual name, ‘Rem’.”

“I couldn’t even convince him to refer to me as Sotha Sil half the time,” Tom says with a smirk. “Good luck in getting him to call you Siris, or Gellert as Gellion, or Cassie as Kaspia.”

Gellert chuckles and looks at me with a grin. “My dear, I’m an Altmer now. While Gellert was a perfectly suitable name for a Nord and one I didn’t care anyone found odd on a Khajiit, it’s not very appropriate for a high elf. Besides, I think I like the name Gellion. I’ve come a long way from Gellert Grindelwald at this point.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. Alright. Gellion, then.”

“It’s meloooodious, isn’t it?” He flutters elven eyelashes. “Rolls right off the tongue.”

“Okay, you two can flirt with each other later,” Kaspia says, going up to the map and setting it to display my shrines across Tamriel. “We can use these as easy access points where we can start setting up gates and gathering intel.”

I nod. “Good. And getting more energy flowing into me will help. I’m going to need to stay in Oblivion for now unless my intervention is absolutely necessary.”

“You just take it easy,” Gellion says. “We’ve totally got this.”

I need to stay back because I’m tired and dangerously close to losing myself as it is. While I’ve gotten used to the idea of being Sheogorath and it feels right and correct in all ways, something about it all, even my very existence, feels shaky. I’m far too strongly at the point of being disoriented by the unreality of the universe and the feeling like nothing really matters. I know it’s not true and I’m trying very hard not to think about it, but that doesn’t make the sensation go away. I’m starting to see why Jyggalag went mad.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m going to rest now. If you need anything, pray. That includes needing to snark about something stupid. Which I’m sure you’d be doing anyway.”

I let my avatar discorporealize and return to simply being the realm. _This_ is what is going to take a while to get used to. I’m not just a person, not a human, elf, Khajiit, whatever. I’m an entire realm with an existence beyond a physical body. Everything in the Shivering Isles is basically inside of me. It’s no wonder that the Daedric Princes can have such an alien perspective compared to mortals.

The existence that is Sheogorath is a conglomeration of ethereal essence located within the void-sea of Oblivion. “Sheogorath” is more accurately the name of the realm itself rather than simply its Prince. It’s a level I wasn’t even aware of at first, even though I _knew_ the realm was basically a part of me. It just hadn’t really occurred to me that it’s more of the reverse, that the realm is actually _me_.

You were probably more interested in hearing the exploits of my friends than in me pondering the nature of existence, though, so I’ll just get to that. Let them have their own adventures. I’m busy having identity crises. Again.

* * *

“War room meetings always hurt my head,” Dranney says.

“At least Mehrunes Dagon didn’t show up this time too,” Hillyn says. “Come on, let’s pack up. The Shivering Isles has been great but I, for one, am eager to see Tamriel again now that it’s not messed up anymore.”

“I want to get some new armor, though,” Dranney says. “This training gear makes me look like a Daedra and would be really conspicuous.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Hillyn says. “Plus any half-decent mage would be able to detect Daedric enchantments in even the normal-looking items. Let’s check the storerooms for something suitable originating from Nirn.”

“We should probably pack provisions just for venturing into the storerooms alone,” Dranney says with a chuckle. “We might be hiking for a while.”

“It’s okay,” Hillyn says. “I know a trick.”

The storerooms of the Shivering Isles are marvelous and terrifying at the same time. The culmination of two or three groups of adventurers active at any given time, all bringing back whatever random junk they find sitting around in a cave or tomb somewhere. At one point, there had been a fine collection of legendary artifacts, and there still are, but some of those disappeared during various temporal transitions due to certain unique items refusing to let themselves be duplicated. That’s generally ones with heavy amounts of Daedric or Aedric essence in them, such as Azura’s Star and the Amulet of Kings.

Trying to organize the place had driven several people mad up until Tom had assigned a small regiment of human-shaped clockwork constructs called factotums to manage the inventory. They shuffle about the place, cleaning and moving things around in preparation for beginning to receive new loads of goods again.

“Alright, show me this trick of yours,” Dranney says. “Otherwise I’m going to start looking through the armor section, which is like a mile or so over that way past the potions, tools, and housewares.”

Hillyn clears her throat and goes up to one of the factotums. “Excuse me. Can you help me for a moment?”

The factotum pauses and turns to her. “Salutations, Username Hillyn. I am bound by my functions to assist you. State your inquiry.”

“Wait, they can _talk_?” Dranney exclaims.

“I am able to perform a variety of tasks relating to personal storage and organization,” the factotum says.

“We’re looking for equipment,” Hillyn says.

“Specify parameters.”

“I require a cloth robe suitable for a sorceress, of a size that will fit me,” Hillyn says.

“Reflecting… reflecting… Requested item located in grid H–12. Would you prefer to have it brought here or to to go there?”

“Please have it brought here,” Hillyn says.

“Acknowledged,” the factotum says. “Do you have further inquiries?”

“So, what, we can just ask it anything?” Dranney says. “Wait, is ‘it’ the correct term? Are they intelligent? Do they have genders?”

The factotum pauses and says in a strange tone, “Dreaming… cotton gin… rainbow… You may refer to me as female.”

Dranney blinks. “Okay, that was weird.”

“Alright then,” Hillyn says. “We’ll, uh, actually need full outfits and some weapons. Suitable equipment for a mage for me, and Dranney here will require leather armor and… did you decide to go with a sword, Dranney?”

“A sword is fine,” Dranney says. “Or an axe.”

“One-handed or two-handed?” the factotum asks.

“This is difficult,” Dranney grumbles. “Rispy has trained me with the basics of a number of types of weapons. Maybe you could bring a few different options, and a shield and some daggers as well?”

“Reflecting… reflecting… A selection of the requested equipment will be brought here for you. Do you require anything else?”

“Do you have a name?” Dranney asks.

“My designation is Shivering Repository Supervisor.”

“That’s not a _name_ ,” Dranney protests.

“My serial number is S9-R4H.”

“That’s still not a name,” Dranney says.

“Oh, come on, Dranney, you’re confusing the poor factotum,” Hillyn says.

“Asking for a being’s name shouldn’t be a difficult question,” Dranney says. “Well, at least unless you’re our cousin or his weird friends, who seem to have made it complicated.”

“Dreaming… vellum scroll… cradle…”

“Oh, she’s doing that thing again,” Dranney says.

“I have selected the name ‘Sakina’,” the factotum says finally.

“Sakina,” Dranney repeats.

“It is a Redguard name meaning ‘tranquility’, according to the databanks.”

“Yes, that’s a lovely name,” Hillyn says hurriedly, casting a look at Dranney and mouthing at him _‘Quit asking stupid questions.’_

“Here are your requested items.”

Another factotum rolls up a rack with several pieces of apparel and weapons. The robe is Altmer-style, and is dyed blood red. Hillyn briefly regrets not having been more specific about _style_ , as she’s pretty sure there’s a fairly wide selection available. She is nonetheless grateful that color-changing magic is not difficult.

“I’m not sure I’d want to know who previously owned this particular robe and thought this was a great color,” Hillyn mutters as she tries it on.

“That information is unavailable,” Sakina says.

“It’s fine,” Hillyn says. The robe is a little snug around the shoulders, as Altmer tend to be more slender than Nords, but it otherwise fit well enough and there’s a magicka-boosting enchantment on it that isn’t Daedric in origin. She casts a spell to change the robe’s color, although it takes her a few tries to get it right. First purple, then lavender, then the light blue that had been her original intention.

Dranney is trying on the black leather armor that had been brought for him, which paradoxically seemed to be Bosmer-style but large enough for a Nord rather than a tiny wood elf. Hillyn wasn’t even going to speculate on _that_ , plus it looked a little ridiculous on him even if it did fit.

“You know,” Dranney muses as he looks down at himself. “I think I’m failing at not looking like a Dark Seducer.”

“Would it help if it were brown leather rather than black?” Hillyn asks.

“Yes, yes it would,” Dranney says. “Cast your magic, sister of mine, and make me look more like an adventurer, or at least a bandit or something.”

Hillyn cast the color changing spell on him, altering the leather armor to be yellow, then red, then several shades of orangish before shrugging and giving up. “Sorry. Maybe another set?”

“Yeah,” Dranney agrees. and takes it off again. “Could I get some _Nord_ leather armor, maybe? Preferably with stamina or health enchantments on it?”

“Reflecting… reflecting… Item located. It will be brought to you momentarily.”

“Thank you,” Dranney says, reaching over to pick up the large axe from the rack and test its weight. “ _This_ , on the other hand, is properly Nordy.”

“Are you trying very hard to be a Nordy Nord?” Hillyn asks.

“Better to look the part of a Nordy Nord, at least,” Dranney says. “Makes people underestimate me. So they might not see me sneaking up on them.”

“With a battle axe?”

“Battle axe sneak attacks are the _best_ sneak attacks,” Dranney retorts.

* * *

Once they’d finished equipping themselves satisfactorily, albeit looking like a couple of adventurers in mismatched armor, they head for the portal room. The Dunmer and Argonian are there, and Hillyn has to remind herself that their names are Siris Moren and Moon-Over-Still-Waters now. It’s going to take some getting used to their new appearances, and she’s not quite sure how _they_ manage to keep up with it and take it all in stride like they do.

“You’ll definitely blend in with those outfits,” Siris says.

“I’m not sure whether that’s supposed to be sarcasm or not,” Dranney says with a smirk.

“You kids ready to head out to Nirn?” Siris asks. “You’re Nords, so you’d probably blend in best in Ebonheart Pact territory. We’re heading that way ourselves to get some things set up.”

“The Ebonheart Pact is the alliance with the Nords, Dunmer, and Argonians, if we forgot to mention that at the meeting,” Moony says helpfully. “Or you fell asleep at the meeting.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Siris says. “Adventuring isn’t supposed to be about _meetings_ , dammit. There could at least be some booze involved or something.”

“Ebonheart Pact,” Hillyn says. “Yes, that sounds good.”

“I don’t want to go back to Skyrim, though,” Dranney says. “How about Morrowind? Can we go to Morrowind? I’ve heard it’s a neat place.”

“Absolutely,” Siris says. “We’re fixing in on a shrine to Sheogorath in the region of Morrowind called Stonefalls.”

“Do you have everything you’ll need?” Moony asks. “Food, potions, warm blankets?”

“We’re Nords going somewhere warm and possibly volcanic,” Dranney points out.

“Right, never mind the blankets, then,” Moony says.

“We’ve got everything,” Hillyn says, gesturing to her pack. “We’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

“You should take one of the crystal amulets of Akatosh with you at least,” Moony says. “In case you run into a time breach, you’ll be able to seal it that way.”

“I guess they’d attract less attention since they’re obviously Divine, but don’t they also have Daedric essence in them?” Hillyn asks.

“Eh, maybe a bit, but nobody’s going to look at an amulet of Akatosh and decide you’re a Daedra worshipper,” Siris says. “Hermione and Abraxas left the ones they were wearing because they’re not planning on leaving the Shivering Isles. They’re in the war room.”

Hillyn goes and retrieves them, and returns to pass one to Dranney. Hillyn slips hers around her neck, but hides it under her robe. It feels _weird_ against her skin. There’s a lot of power in there, but it’s a unique sort of power different from the Daedric paraphernalia she’s gotten used to in her time in the Shivering Isles. Is that what Aedric essence feels like?

Siris opens a swirling violet portal, and the four of them step through out onto a sunny hillside amidst an ancient Daedric ruin. It’s a bright and clear morning in Morrowind. An Aureal guards the place, her golden armor all agleam. Hillyn hadn’t expected to see one of Sheogorath’s Daedra outside of the Shivering Isles, but then she supposed if they would be anywhere, this is the sort of place they’d make sense in, right?

The Aureal, for her part, seems _quite_ surprised for two Nords, a Dunmer, and an Argonian to have just stepped out of a portal. “I am Aurig Mireh. Who are you?”

“You’ve been out here since before the shift?” Moony asks. “No wonder you’re confused.”

“What shift?” Mireh wonders.

“Okay, well, it’s kind of a long story and I’m sure if you ask Sheogorath he’ll talk your ears off about it all,” Siris says. “If you do ask, be prepared to waste at least a year of your existence listening to him ramble and lately he’s gotten a philosophical bent rather than simply being bent. Moony here and I are… bound to him? Part of him?”

“I believe it’s more or less like Barbas,” Moony says. “Clavicus Vile’s dog who is not Vile but is also Vile.”

“And the Nord kids here are Sheogorath’s cousins,” Siris goes on.

“Hi,” Hillyn says with a nervous wave. Although she liked Aureals in general, this particular one seemed to be on the high end of their power scale and she would prefer not to be seen as a potential target in any way.

“As you say,” Mireh says, carefully looking over Siris and Moony. “Your mortal guises are convincing but I can definitely sense Lord Sheogorath’s essence in you. If you seek to infiltrate the towns of Tamriel, there might be mages who can cast detection spells that could reveal you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Siris says. “I’m a master illusionist, and at any rate, we’re mostly here to escort the twins and get some things set up at this shrine. Sheogorath wants more permanent gateways set up that can be activated by people who know the passcode.”

“We don’t really need an escort,” Dranney says.

Hillyn elbowed him hard. “What my dear brother means is, thank you for your assistance in getting here. We can take things from here. Which way to the nearest town?”

Mireh points off in a direction. “The town the dark elves call Kragenmoor is a short distance in that direction. You can see if from here it you look from the right position.”

“Thank you,” Hillyn says. “We’ll be off then. Farewell.”

* * *

Once they’re out of sight of the shrine, Hillyn pulls her amulet of Akatosh out from under her robe. It feels too weird and kind of tingly to keep pressed against her skin and she doubts anyone out here will look twice at it even if it _is_ a bit shinier than a typical Divine amulet. They usually aren’t fitted with a faintly glowing blue crystal behind the symbol of the Aedra they’re meant for, in this case an hourglass with wings.

Past the scraggly trees and giant mushrooms, the town soon spreads before them, although they have to circle around down a cliff to actually get to it on foot.

“So, that’s Kragenmoor?” Dranney says as they approach the town. “It doesn’t look like much.”

“You mean it looks more like Karthwasten than the Imperial City,” Hillyn points out. “Aside from, you know, looking like dark elves built it instead of Reachfolk.”

As opposed to the thatched roofs and stone walls they’d grown up with, or the bizarre mishmash that characterized the Shivering Isles, the dark elf architecture that made up Kragenmoor is, well, _dark_. It’s pointy and seems a touch inspired by the sort of Daedric ruins they’d just come out of.

The locals don’t seem very alarmed about a pair of Nords wandering in. There are other Nords there, after all, even other Argonians. The Ebonheart Pact is perhaps not even nearly as strange as the Empire that united all of Tamriel, at any rate. Hillyn had no idea how it stayed together as much as it had. Very often, Reachfolk and Nords couldn’t get along with one another, how were they to react to elves, or Argonians, or Khajiit? And yet the Empire had worked somehow, and the Imperial City had been bustling with every race, not just Imperials.

“Where do we even start?” Dranney wonders quietly. “This whole adventuring thing is kind of confusing to me. Do we just walk up to random people and ask if they have a quest for us?”

Hillyn smirks. “Let’s start off by trying to find the Mages and Fighters Guilds.”

After some searching for an actual _building_ , they ask for directions and are pointed to a simple tent with a banner hanging in front of it, red and depicting a sword pointing down.

“This is the Fighters Guild?” Dranney says dubiously.

“It is,” says the dark elf man in front of the tent. “I hope that one day we may be able to have a full-sized guild hall in every town, but these tents will suffice. We are fighters, after all, and do not shirk at rugged conditions. Regardless, welcome. I am Dyleso, the steward of the Kragenmoor branch of the Fighters Guild. Are you seeking to join?” He looks over Dranney appraisingly. “You have the look of a strong, young warrior about you.”

“My name is Dranney Wind-Drifter. Yes, I’m hoping to join. What do I have to do?”

Hillyn distinctly remembers the runaround the Mages Guild in the Third Era tried to give her when she wanted to join. They wouldn’t let her become a full member unless she’d gotten recommendations from all the guild halls in Cyrodiil. Needless to say, she never actually managed it, given the disruptions from the temporal anomalies.

“I can process your registration,” Dyleso says. “There are no specific requirements beyond a desire to take the fight to whatever might threaten the good people of Tamriel. We are not affiliated with any one of the three alliances, so members of all races are welcome. Don’t be alarmed should you see Khajiit or Orcs in our guild halls. Our guildmaster, Jofnir Iceblade, is a Nord, but he oversees all of us regardless of origin.”

“No requirements?” Hillyn asks. “You mean I could join too? I’m obviously a mage and not a fighter.”

Dyleso chuckles. “You may not have as much use for the sort of training we offer, but if you seek to fight alongside your kinsman, you are still welcome.”

“I’m hoping to join the Mages Guild, though,” Hillyn says. “Is that their tent over that way?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Dyleso says. “You can join both, if you wish.”

“Okay then,” Hillyn says. “You can put me down too then, I suppose. I’m Hillyn Wind-Drifter.”

“Very good,” Dyleso says. “Welcome to you both. As you can see, though, our facilities here are limited. The nearest full guild hall is in Davon’s Watch, to the east.”

“Thank you,” Hillyn says. “We’ll keep that in mind. For the moment, though, I’m going to go join the Mages Guild.”

“Safe travels, comrades.”

The logo for the Mages Guild in the Second Era appeared to be some sort of eye inside of a fancy circle. A more ornate version than the one they were using in the Third Era, but recognizably similar enough. The small tent stands next to ones containing alchemy and enchanting equipment.

“Excuse me,” Hillyn addresses an Argonian reading beside a table. “Who can I speak to about joining the Mages Guild?”

The Argonian points to a Breton woman. “You should speak with Laelyn Thielde. She can help you.”

Hillyn goes over to the woman and repeats her request. “What do I need to do to join the Mages Guild?”

“I can fill out your paperwork and get you admitted,” Laelyn says.

“I don’t need to travel all over Tamriel and get recommendations from absolutely everyone?” Hillyn asks.

Laelyn looks puzzled enough at that suggestion that she gives a short laugh. “No, of course not. That’s ridiculous and cumbersome. Finding books in your travels would be welcome and will assist you in advancing in the guild, but isn’t required just to join.”

“You just want people to find books?” Dranney asks. “Not display magical prowess?”

“Magical prowess is something to be acquired through time and study,” Laelyn says. “It would hardly be expected to be a skilled mage _before_ joining, after all. But the guild is about knowledge, first and foremost, a far more valuable thing than simply skill.”

“As you say…” Dranney says dubiously. “Well, I’m sure we can find you some books, somewhere or another.”

“Excellent,” Laelyn says. “What are your names and place of origin?”

“Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter, from Karthwasten,” Dranney says.

“You’re joining, too?” Hillyn asks.

“Eh, why not?” Dranney says. “We’ll be doing the same things anyway. Might as well get credit for it too.” He chuckles.

“Let me be the first to welcome the two of you to the Mages Guild,” Laelyn says. “Our closest guild hall is in Davon’s Watch, and I’m afraid we don’t have much of a selection here. But you are welcome to peruse our libraries whenever you wish, and make use of our alchemy and enchanting equipment. We have halls in every major city.”

“Thank you,” Hillyn says. “And we’ll be sure to bring whatever rare books we run across in our travels to the closest guild hall, then.”

As they head away from the tent, Dranney says, “I suppose we ought to go to Davon’s Watch. There doesn’t appear to be much in this little town.”

“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” Hillyn says.

She pulls our her magic map. Words spread across the blank paper, reading, _Marauder’s Map: Prank All Tamriel 3E 433 Edition. Brought to you by Muthseras Padfoot, Moony, Slitherling, and Clever_.

“I do hope this thing magically updates itself,” Hillyn mutters before tapping it with her fingers. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

Lines spread across the map, forming images, outlines of buildings, dots with names next to them. The map was a genuine Daedric artifact of Sheogorath and while that might be obvious to any mage that analyzed it, it was much, much too useful to do without. Also bound to her so that she couldn’t misplace it even if she tried, which was fine with her because it was the most valuable thing she owned. Her cousin’s weird friends, the Marauders she supposed they called themselves from time to time, had piled every detection spell they knew onto it, and Sheogorath himself had further enhanced it.

Sure enough, it had indeed updated itself with their surroundings. The map opened up zoomed in on Kragenmoor, and distinctly denotes the Mages and Fighters Guild tents along with the names and positions of everyone within half a mile. She touches it and pinches her fingers together to zoom out and display the entire Stonefalls area. Davon’s Watch looked like it was a fair distance to the east, along the coast.

“We’ve got a bit of a hike ahead of us,” Hillyn says. “Shall we be off?”

“Daylight’s wasting,” Dranney agrees.

* * *

The two of them head down the road, in no particular hurry, taking in the sights and sounds of Morrowind and enjoying being somewhere that isn’t mad for once. Admittedly, this was instead somewhere that was warm and frequently filled with choking ash. They were forced to hunker down in their tent and wait for an ash storm to pass more than once on their trip. It did, however, make Hillyn wish that they’d taken along one of the magical, climate-controlled tents that had been offered them and she’d just passed up due to it having Daedric enchantments on it. Now she’s regretting it.

“Are you still enjoying Morrowind?” Hillyn asks.

“Yep!” Dranney replies cheerfully. “It’s just my sort of place.”

“Absolutely miserable?”

Dranney smirks. “I was really thinking ‘smoking hot’, but I guess there’s that, too.”

Hillyn rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to think about my twin brother’s sexual attractiveness, especially considering he looks a lot like me.”

They spend a night in the city of Ebonheart. Nobody bats an eye that their coin is stamped with the face of an Emperor who won’t be born for centuries. Another town they pass through has a lava flow running right down the _middle_ of it. They decline to stop there. Morrowind is already hot enough for their Nord blood that they don’t need to hug the lava on top of that. Having to fight off overly aggressive giant bugs the whole way is kind of annoying as well, but at least that they can just take as combat practice. Still, they’re more than a little grateful to step inside the safety of the walls once they get where they’re going.

“Finally,” Hillyn says. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“You’ve been spending too much time sitting around reading,” Dranney says.

“You’ll forgive me that the first thing I’m going to do is find the nearest inn and rent a room,” Hillyn says.

“Yes, finding an inn sounds great,” Dranney agrees. “I could use a drink.”

Davon’s Watch is a much larger town than Kragenmoor, even larger than Ebonheart, more like a full-blown city. As such, it actually has more than one inn available. The closest one is called the Watch House, which would be a bit of a confusing name for an inn if it weren’t for the sign outside. Inside, there’s a man loudly arguing something about clothes that’s not particularly coherent. The difference between an outfit and a costume? Hillyn isn’t sure what he’s on about and doesn’t really care. With everything aching, she tosses the innkeeper some coins and heads upstairs to lay down.

* * *

Hillyn wakes, still tired and possibly even more sore than she had been last night. Dranney lays across from her, still snoozing heavily. He must have stayed up half the night drinking while she’d been too tired to even bother getting food before collapsing. Hunger gnawing at her stomach, she stood up, stretching, and went downstairs to get something to eat at the inn. Maybe she’d stop by the Mages Guild later and see if she could read up on this time period and help get her bearings in the Ebonheart Pact.

Out in the streets while looking for the guild hall, a hooded figure approaches her. “Greetings. I’ve been looking for you.”

Hillyn glances left and right, but the hooded woman is looking straight at her. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You match the description I was given. I have a message for you.”

“What’s the message?” Hillyn asks, thinking it might have something to do with guild business for either one of the guilds, or maybe whatever it was the Marauders were up to.

“My benefactor wishes to speak with you about an urgent matter,” the hooded figure says. “It could affect the very fate of our world.”

Was this what a ‘quest’ was supposed to be like? The Marauders had always spoken of people who practically accosted them in the streets to try to get them to solve all their problems, and while it sounded implausible, this seems very much like that sort of thing. Is it something about _dressing_ like an adventurer that makes people think you’re the one to solve whatever crisis is going on, probably by stabbing it or setting it on fire?

“That sounds ominous,” Hillyn says. “I’m guessing the details are to be discussed in private?”

“You would be correct.”

“Alright then,” Hillyn says. “Where can I meet this mysterious benefactor of yours?”

The hooded figure gives her directions to a house not far down the street. Hillyn nods, then turns to head back toward the inn. “Wait,” the hooded woman stops her. “That’s the wrong way.”

“I’m going to get my brother,” Hillyn says.

“My benefactor’s message is for your ears only.”

Hillyn narrows her eyes suspiciously. Something about this doesn’t quite add up. “My twin brother goes where I go.” And there’s no way she’s meeting up with a mysterious benefactor by herself without even telling her brother where she’s going.

The hooded figure can clearly see there’s no talking Hillyn out of it, and merely says, “As you say.”

Back at the Watch House, Dranney is still asleep and snoring loudly enough that two nearby dark elves are glaring at him with some annoyance, although they haven’t yet bothered trying to wake him.

“Dranney!” Hillyn snaps.

Dranney mumbles sleepily without moving, “Yes, Mum, I’ll be right up.”

“Dranneeeeeey,” Hillyn whines. “I’m not our mother and what _were_ you drinking last night?”

Dranney groans and buries his head in a pillow. “It was some Dunmer drink they called ‘sujamma’.”

Hillyn sighs. “Well, unfortunately for you, I need you awake and not hung over.” She fishes around in her pack and pulled out an orange-colored potion. “Get up and drink this.”

Dranney grumbles and sits up reluctantly. “Yes, Mum.” He takes the potion and downs it, then peers at the bottle. “This is just orange juice.”

“It was labeled ‘hangover cure’…” Hillyn says. “I’m sure it’s just a potion that includes oranges in its recipe.”

“Whatever,” Dranney mutters. “What did you wake me up for?”

“I think I’ve been given a ‘quest’,” Hillyn says. “I’m supposed to meet someone at a house down the street.”

Whether it was the ‘potion’ or his own suspicions, Dranney is instantly alert. “Meet who? For what?”

“I don’t know, they wouldn’t say,” Hillyn says. “I figured it must be some sort of secretive business. Something didn’t seem right about it so I thought I’d best at least tell you where I was going. I’ll understand if you want to stay here and sleep off the hangover, though.”

Dranney scowls. “To Oblivion with that. Like I’m going to let my sister walk into a mysteriously suspicious meeting by herself.” He grabbed his battle axe and slung it across his back. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Still a little wobbly, Dranney follows Hillyn out to the building she’d been pointed to. She wishes she knew what this was about, but figures she will find out soon enough. The house seems normal enough at first glance, and a Redguard man sits in a chair quietly.

“Hello?” Hillyn calls out as she walks through the room. “Are you the one I was sent to speak with?”

She comes up behind the man, only then discovering that he’s bound and gagged. He looks up at her in alarm and makes a muffled sound as if trying to cry out. His eyes fixate on something behind her.

Before she can figure out what’s going on, pain shoots through her skull and the world goes black.

* * *

Dizzy, head swimming, Hillyn is jostled awake by movement. Cold metal binds her wrists together. A heavy collar circles her neck.

She’s forced to her teeth and hooked to chains. Dragged forward, stumbling to keep up.

“Sister…” rasps Dranney’s voice behind her. “What… what’s going on?”

Someone yanks the chain, almost causing them to fall. “Quiet!”

“I’m sorry,” Dranney mumbles thickly. “I should have been watching your back.”

Hillyn breathlessly tries to reply, but can’t manage any words. Her vision blurs and she staggers into the elf chained in front of her.

End of the line. They come to a dim room with an altar, an elven man in sinister necromancer’s garb standing beside it with a wicked-looking sacrificial dagger. Hillyn can’t quite tell in this light and from her angle whether he’s a high elf or a wood elf, but doesn’t really care right now.

Panic bubbles up slowly in her cloudy mind and she tries to cast a spell, any spell, but no magicka comes to her. Her shackles are probably suppressing it, and they probably drugged her on top of that. She’s having trouble forming coherent thoughts.

The prisoner in front of her is thrown onto the altar, and the necromancer stabs his dagger into the poor elf’s chest.

“May Sheogorath strike you down,” Hillyn hisses as she’s dragged onto the altar next.

The necromancer only laughs at that. “Your lord cannot save you.”

He plunges the dagger into her heart. Her soul screams as she’s pulled violently into darkness.


	2. Shadows of Other Realms

Rispy sits on the edge of a ruin overlooking the sea on the coast of Summerset Island, little goblin legs hanging over the lip. It’s a pleasant day, but he’s glad not to be in Summerset by himself. The local high elves would probably simply attack any goblin they saw this close to the city of Alinor.

Gellion and Luna stand nearby, a high elf and a wood elf, although none of them are keen on getting too close to the time breach. They don’t know where Theryn Shadowhand might have been before joining the Psijic Order, but they know where she’ll _be_. At some point, she will join the Psijic Order and be sent to close time breaches, and the fact that this one is still here indicates that she hasn’t done so yet. And so, that leaves them to hang around here and wait, even though they don’t know how long it might be. Days? Months? Years? The timeline is vague enough even before taking alternate universes into account.

Rispy knows Theryn, or at least had been acquainted with a few different versions of her. Whether this one resembles any of those would remain to be seen. Theryn Mahariel, Theryn Salothan… That latter should have been her Dunmer name, not Shadowhand. It was odd.

“Couldn’t we just leave a contingency spell here to watch until she gets here?” Gellion wonders.

Luna shakes her head. “We wouldn’t be able to get back here fast enough.”

“It’s fine,” Rispy says. “We can wait. If you’re bored, Alinor is right over there. You can go shopping or something.”

“Eh, nah,” Gellion says. “I don’t think I’m that bored yet.” A long pause. “Who wants to play ‘I Spy’?”

* * *

Hillyn is cold. So cold that she feels like she would never be warm again. She wakes, slowly, but it doesn’t really feel like waking. Her hands are clammy and she can’t detect a heartbeat. She’s dead, her sluggish mind realizes, vaguely remembering those last few moments when that elven necromancer killed her.

Numbly, she climbs to her feet at a glacial pace. As she does so, something around her neck shifts and touches her skin. Warmth floods through her and her head immediately clears.

She’s in a cell. Why is she in a cell? She’d always expected to be going back to the Shivering Isles when she died. While having the shortest adventuring career in history would have been sad, she wouldn’t have minded being back there again. This spiky, ice blue place looks nothing like anywhere in the Shivering Isles, though. Where is she? Did the necromancer somehow redirect her afterlife to send her soul somewhere else?

Dranney isn’t in sight anywhere, either. The crystal amulet of Akatosh and magic map are still with her, though, even if none of her other possessions are. She’d known they’d been enchanted to remain with their owner in the event of death, but hadn’t expected to actually _need_ that feature anytime soon.

She unrolls the map and mutters its passphrase, dreading what it might say about her location. Lines spread out from her location as it detects and maps her immediate surroundings, but the note in the top left that’s supposed to be giving a name only says _Location unknown_ , along with an odd spinning symbol. After a few moments, it’s replaced with _Somewhere in Oblivion_.

“Thank you, map, for telling me what I’d already guessed,” she mutters. “Can you figure out _which_ realm of Oblivion I’m in? Does it matter?”

At least she can conclude that it definitely isn’t the Shivering Isles, as it would have been able to recognize that. There’s not nearly enough fire and lava to be the Deadlands, either, for that matter.

She makes sure the amulet of Akatosh is underneath the rags she’d wound up in. No sense in any of the local Daedra seeing that. Alas, all that time they’d spent trying on clothes has gone to waste. Since they didn’t have Daedric enchantments on them, they’d been left behind on her mortal body when she’d died.

She’d died. She’d died and woken up somewhere that isn’t the safety of Sheogorath’s realm. She’d died and her soul is trapped in a prison somewhere terrible. Thinking about it too hard and it was hard not to fall into despair.

A dot approaches on the map, labeled _Ahranzu_. Quickly she taps it and whispers, “Mischief managed,” and folds it up to hide it under her rags before the Daedra sees it.

A Dremora comes into sight outside the cell. She recognizes the type of Daedra from the blood red skin and curved black horns on the forehead. She’s not sure this narrows down where she is any further, since Dremora are often associated with Mehrunes Dagon, but not exclusively so.

“Hey!” she calls out, approaching the bars. “Let me out of here!”

Ahranzu laughs. “Oh, a fresh soul, is it? How sweet. Let me tell you something, little Soul-Shriven. You are never getting out of here. You are never returning to Nirn. Even death cannot free you. Your soul belongs to Molag Bal now. You will be in Coldharbour _forever_.”

At least that confirms where she is, even if it’s pretty damned disheartening. Hillyn sighs and doesn’t feel like arguing with the Daedra. “Okay, fine, but can I at least get out of this cell?”

“Oh, no, you’ll be staying in there for a good while longer,” Ahranzu says. “Maybe in a few decades, once that spirit of yours is broken, you’ll be allowed out to perform slave labor. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?”

* * *

“I spy with my little eye something that begins with ‘w’,” Gellion says.

“Is it water?” Luna says cheerfully.

Rispy isn’t looking. He likes to think he has infinite patience, but that would have involved him sitting here _quietly_ waiting. “Guys, I see something.”

“You didn’t say ‘I spy,” Gellion protests.

Rispy sighs. “I spy with my little eye something that begins with ‘e’.”

Gellion and Luna turn to look in the direct Rispy is facing. A figure in gray Psijic robes is approaching the time breach, carrying a glowing blue crystal skull that is chattering away, although they can’t make out the words from here.

“Elf?” Gellion guesses.

“I was thinking more ‘end to my suffering’, but ‘elf’ works too,” Rispy says.

As she gets closer, Rispy gets a good look at her. The people of Nirn might have mistaken her for a Dunmer, and she passes well enough, but to his long-traveled eyes, she’s definitely not. Her hair is white, not too unusual. The face tattoos marking her eyes and cheeks like black claws, unusual but not exactly otherworldly. She’s too tall, but not beyond the upper limit of normal variation. Her ears are too long, enough that she might have been mocked in her youth had she likely actually grown up in Morrowind. Eyes so blue as to be almost silver, not something found on Dunmer, ever. And her skin… too purple. _Nobody_ on Nirn has that sort of complexion. She might be managing to pass for a half-breed of Dunmer and something else, but Rispy knows better. And with a name like Shadowhand, he knows exactly who she is.

A grin spreads across his face as he recognizes her, and calls out, “Theryn!”

Theryn looks up and sees her, eyes widening and almost dropping the talking skull in surprise. “Rispy!” she shouts, breaking into a run toward him. “By Elune, I never expected to see you again! It’s so good to see a familiar face. How did my favorite goblin get to this crazy place?”

“You know each other?” Gellion asks.

Rispy clears his throat. “Theryn, these are my friends, Gellion and Luna. Gellion, Luna, this is Theryn Shadowhand… a night elf from Azeroth.”

“A _night_ elf?” Gellion says.

“I’ve been trying to keep that quiet,” Theryn says. “Too many questions if it gets out.”

The skull interjects. “This is very touching. By the way, that breach is right over there. I don’t know why you’re so intent upon sealing them. Linear time is so overrated.”

“Sure, but it could at least be non-linear in a way that isn’t a complete mess,” Gellion says.

“I’ll just seal this thing, and _then_ you guys can explain why you were waiting in this particular spot,” Theryn says.

“No, no, allow me,” Gellion says. “Those Psijic seals you’re carrying are handy, but they don’t actually keep the breaches closed. They’ll break open again in a decade or so.”

“If you have a better alternative, by all means go for it, although I’ll wonder why you didn’t use it before I showed up.”

Gellion turns toward the breach and gets as close to it as he dares before activating his amulet. A shout like a recorded Th'um emerges, but not from Gellion’s vocal cords, and a burst of blue light engulfs the breach and closes it like a healing spell healing a cut.

“Impressive,” Theryn says.

“Indeed!” the talking skull agrees. “I wasn’t expecting to encounter extratemporal quasi-Daedric entities here, never mind trans-ethereal artifacts.”

“We tend to be a bit unexpected, yes,” Gellion says.

“I have a feeling this is going to be a long story,” Theryn says.

“Likewise!” Gellion agrees. “Azeroth, eh? What’s it like there?”

“Eh,” Theryn says. “Honestly, I’m not sure how much I miss it.”

“You left there before the Cataclysm, didn’t you?” Rispy asks.

“If by ‘left’ you mean ‘I stepped through a mage’s portal and wound up in Skyrim rather than Dalaran’, then yes, I definitely do not recall any Cataclysms. Did one manage to immediately happen after I was gone, or was there more temporal weirdness going on?”

“More temporal weirdness,” Rispy says. “Be glad you didn’t have to see the Cataclysm, or deal with the pandas, or see someone shift the Dark Portal to point at an alternate universe, or… Yeah, I’ll just leave it at that.”

Theryn sets the skull on top of a broken block and takes a seat with her back against a pillar. “Well, this seems as good a place as any to swap stories, then. How long has it been for you?”

“Eh…” Rispy says. “Complicated. More so than is really necessary to get into right now. To summarize, though, my friends and I actually arrived on Nirn around eight hundred or so years into the future from this time frame. We had to come back because the time breaches had reached a head and were causing all sorts of problems. The fabric of time and reality was basically disintegrating around us.”

“Ah, yeah, that could happen if they weren’t dealt with promptly enough,” the skull says.

“So who’s the skull, anyway?” Gellion asks.

“I am called the Augur of the Obscure!” the skull proclaims.

“That’s a hell of a name,” Gellion says.

“Don’t make me call you Bob,” Rispy says.

“Heeeyyy…” the Augur protests against Rispy’s snickers.

“So you mean I fail here?” Theryn asks, trying to get them back on track.

“No,” Rispy says. “Our coming back in time split off an alternate universe. There’s no telling what might happen from here on out. We’re kind of attached to the most unpredictable force of nature in the multiverse, after all.”

“Oh, _him,_ ” the Augur says.

“Yes, _him_ ,” Rispy says. “And he’s fully aware of his powers and is invested in current events.”

The Augur gives a low whistle. “Seriously, you might as well pack up your dice and cards right now, because this is going to be a wild ride.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but for some reason I feel terrified,” Theryn says.

* * *

“You know, when I said this would be a good place to catch up, I didn’t expect to still be sitting here after sundown,” Theryn says.

Rispy chuckles. “I think we’ve done a pretty good job of summarizing, but I’ve really barely scratched the surface.”

“Summarizing how your friend somehow became the God of Madness,” Theryn says. “When he spent literally the entire time we were battling the armies of the Lich King fishing.”

“It’s just the sort of thing he does,” Gellion says. “How about you?”

“Oh, Elune, I can’t even say it’s a long story after just hearing Rispy summarize a million years.” Theryn stretches. “And I’m not sure that I even want to go into half of it. Rispy knows most of it, anyway. Has he told you guys much about Azeroth?”

Gellion shakes his head. “He’s been hush-hush about things that happened on other worlds for the most part. For that matter, he’s generally been pretty hush-hush about what has happened on _this_ world. Our dear favorite Madgod has told us about a few other worlds, but as it takes him an era to get through one of his adventures, he hasn’t been able to cover very many. Azeroth isn’t one of them, I’m afraid.”

“I was in a bad spot for a while,” Theryn says. “Rispy introduced me to his guild and helped to clear my name.” She looks at Rispy. “Do I have to go into it?”

“Not unless you want to,” Rispy says. “I won’t blame you if you’d prefer to leave the past stay buried. You’re in a new world now, after all, and nobody knows who you are but the new life you make for yourself.”

“Yeah,” Theryn agrees. “It was funny how I didn’t even realize I was in another world at first because people for some reason speak a language identical to that spoken by the humans of Azeroth.”

“Alternate universes, or something,” Gellion says.

“The people of the dream speak in the tongue of the dreamer,” Luna says dreamily.

“Plus I popped into the world in the middle of a blizzard, and it was a while before I could see the sky and realize the moons and stars are different. I thought I’d just wound up in a part of Northrend I hadn’t visited before. It’s not like it would have been the first time I’d encountered a teleportation effect that put me nowhere near where I meant to be.”

“Do you still have the rod?” Rispy asks quietly.

“Oh yes,” Theryn says. “My pack and all my equipment came with me, thankfully. I stashed most of it on Artaeum, though. I attract less attention in Psijic robes. If I’ve got a hood up, I can pass for a half-Dunmer, at least. The rod, though, I _absolutely_ keep that with me at all times.”

“What’s this rod?” Gellion asks.

Theryn looks at him appraisingly, then casts a glance to Rispy and asks in a language that does not exist on Tamriel, “How much do you trust them?”

“With my soul,” Rispy replies in the same. “You can tell them anything.”

Theryn clears her throat and turns back to the two elves, returning to the common tongue. “How do you feel about necromancy?”

“Eh,” Gellion says. “I’m not bad with it, but it’s usually more trouble than it’s worth. It’s a hassle to make sure the bodies don’t stink if they’re not either fresh or skeletal. Sometimes it’s funny to reanimate something you just killed to make it attack its friends, but usually I prefer to smash them in the face or set them on fire.”

“It’s called a Rod of Domination. It can control undead.”

“Sounds handy,” Gellion says.

“Needless to say, I keep it on hand at all times in case I encounter undead,” Theryn says. “Which, thankfully, I have not in Tamriel yet. I presume they do exist here though?”

“Oh yes,” Rispy says. “The dead don’t like to stay dead on Nirn anymore than on Azeroth. Every damned tomb and cemetery.”

“The dead are often restless when the veil is unstable,” Luna says.

“I’ll definitely keep it handy, then,” Theryn says, standing up and brushing herself off. “Alright, I think we’ve hung around this ruin long enough. We ought to get moving. There’s more breaches to close and I’d love to meet your new guild.”

“Calling it a ‘guild’ implies more organization than we manage at times,” Gellion says.

“We call ourselves the Marauders,” Luna says with a grin. “I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

“For some reason I still feel terrified,” Theryn says.

* * *

Somewhere in the back of my mind, insofar as an amorphous plane of Oblivion can have a mind, a girl’s voice whispers to me.

{Sheogorath…} it murmurs, barely audible, barely capable of making out my name in the rustle of mental sounds.

{Cousin, I…} the next whisper comes, a little louder this time, a little more confident.

{Lexen!} the voice echoes clearly into my mind, although it still seems like it’s from a long distance away. {Lexen, can you hear me?}

I focus myself out of my thoughts and concentrate on the voice. {Hillyn?}

{Yes, it’s me! … am … can you … I don’t …}

{Hillyn, I can’t quite make out what you’re saying,} I reply. {What’s wrong?}

I reach out toward Nirn, searching for the signature of the magic map I’d given her, but it’s not there.

{…ease … a nec… ered me … my s… Coldhar… trapped …}

In alarm, I turn my attention toward Oblivion and follow the line of prayer and the link to the magic map back to one particular realm. Coldharbour.

Molag Bal has my cousin. Shit, that’s not good.

{Hillyn, are you alright?} I try to ask her. {Aside from having been kidnapped and imprisoned. That’s probably not alright.}

{No… ight… sn’t kid… murd… I’m dead! M… Bal… my soul! …crifice… shit … atten… I have to go.}

{Hillyn?} I send to her frantically. {HILLYN?}

There’s no response.

Molag Bal doesn’t just have my cousin. He has my cousin’s _soul_.

All across the Shivering Isles, a raging thunderstorm boils up out of a clear sky. Even the skies of Mania are stormy, although the lightning is still rainbow-colored.

In his office in my palace, Haskill puts down the book he was reading and looks out the window with some concern. As my chamberlain, he is frequently worried about my mood swings, even if he displays little emotion and takes it all as something to be expected.

With a crack of lightning, I manifest an avatar inside of his office. “Haskill,” I say. “Do I have any recourse if another Daedric Prince takes the soul of one of my worshippers who should have gone to me?”

“That depends, my Lord,” Haskill says. “May I ask what happened?”

“Molag Bal has Hillyn’s soul,” I choke out. “It sounds like she was sacrificed to him.”

“Oh dear,” Haskill says. “I’m afraid to tell you that there’s precious little you can do about it, my Lord. Molag Bal is not one of the Daedra you’ve ever been on good terms with, and he would be more powerful than you even were you not still weak from your exertions.”

“And, let me guess…” I grind out. “If I let him know how important she is to me, he’ll try to use her as leverage over me?”

“It’s very likely, my Lord,” Haskill says.

I’d long ago told myself never to become too attached to anyone who isn’t bound to me. It hasn’t been an issue up until now, since I hadn’t really made many serious attachments in this universe. And in those cases, if I really wanted to, I could just reset time and they’d be alive again, and I could just prevent them from dying.

If I reset, we’ll be able to revert to the moment that we first arrived in the Second Era. I cast the Temporal Mark spell out of habit after arriving. It would be so easy to just wipe clean the past few weeks and start over.

{Tom, how dangerous would a reset be to the temporal fabric?} I ask.

{I would strongly advise against attempting one, Lexen.}

{Would it cause more breaches? Start up the anomalies again?}

{I can almost guarantee it,} Tom replies. {What happened to spark that question?}

{Molag Bal has Hillyn’s soul.}

{He what? She was sacrificed to him?}

{Yes,} I tell him. {And I am going to _destroy_ him for this.}

{Were you able to contact her?} Tom asks. {If her soul is still intact, we may be able to retrieve her.}

{I spoke with her briefly. She’s not responding now.}

{You can reset if you wish to try, Lexen. But I can almost guarantee that it will make things worse. These anomalies have been clinging to us, almost as if it’s the Shivering Isles they’ve infected rather than Nirn.}

“Haskill,” I say finally with deadly restraint. “If I were to wish to destroy Molag Bal, how might I go about doing so?”

“I am not certain that it can be done, short of what you did to Jyggalag,” Haskill says.

“That fate would be _too_ good for him,” I say. “And trapping him in his own paradise would not actually solve the problem at hand.”

“Indeed so,” Haskill agrees. “But I have faith that you and your friends can find a way to retrieve her, my Lord.”

“People have faith in me, but do I have faith in myself?” I mutter, sounding a good deal more calm than I felt. Outside, the storm still rages. In the distant reaches of my realm, I’ve set something on fire far away from where anyone is. I need the destruction, but I don’t want to actually hurt any of my own people.

I might be willing to say to hell with the good of the universe in order to save one mortal, but I have my doubts that resetting would even _work_. Even if reality managed to remain undamaged. Because Hillyn was in the Shivering Isles at the point of my Temporal Mark and she isn’t here now. Resetting would only alter where I am with respect to Nirn, and not alter me or anything in my realm. It would very likely simply result in having no Hillyn inside of my realm, and no Hillyn out on Nirn either.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I transfer my avatar to the war room and mentally notify all of my friends to prepare for war.

* * *

“What’s going on?” Gellion asks as people start arriving in the war room.

“Another mandatory adventuring meeting?” Abraxas grumbles as he stakes a seat. “This had better be important.”

I crackle and glare at him, but don’t say anything. _I am the eye of the storm_. I need to stay in control. It won’t help anything to lose my shit and start destroying things I don’t mean to.

“Maybe you should keep the snark down,” Siris says quietly. “He’s looking scary today.”

“Molag Bal has Hillyn’s soul,” I say with forced calm. “And we are going to war.”

“Who is Molag Bal?” asks the elf who came in with Gellion, Luna, and Rispy.

I look at her and cast a naming spell. “Theryn Shadowhand? Good, they found you. Molag Bal is another Daedric Prince. God of Schemes, Lord of Domination. And one of his minions sacrificed my dear cousin to him, and now her soul is trapped in his hell.” I manage to make it through that last bit without choking. Barely.

“That… does not sound good,” Theryn says.

“What about Dranney?” Siris asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I only heard from Hillyn. Where were they when she…”

“Last I saw them, they were heading for the town of Kragenmoor in Morrowind,” Siris says. “I don’t know what they were doing from there.”

“Siris and Moony, can you head for Morrowind and try to follow her trail, and find out if Dranney is okay?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” Moony says. “Have you tried a kin-finder ritual?”

“I couldn’t even get a read outside of the Shivering Isles,” I say. “Uncle Marty’s the only one who came up. Nothing on Tamriel. Either the ritual is malfunctioning, or they’re both gone.”

“What does the Shivering Isles need to be doing?” Abraxas asks with a frown.

“Get our armies ready,” I say. “The Aureals and Mazken need to be prepared to strike where needed. Get the sigil stones set up for opening Oblivion gates.”

“You want to launch a counter-invasion?” Abraxas asks.

“You’re damned right I do,” I say. “I’m under no illusions that I can succeed at invading Coldharbour on my own at this point. Even if Mehrunes helps. We need stealth or more allies. I’ll start contacting the other Daedra and find out which of them hates Molag Bal enough to want to do something about him.”

“What of the time breaches?” Tom asks.

“They’re still a priority,” I say. “They’re why we came here and now. But I trust you guys can take care of them. Hopefully the Psijics will be able to find out what’s causing them. Getting gates set up for quick travel is also a priority. I want us to be able to manifest an army anywhere in Tamriel at a moment’s notice.”

“Unfortunately, there is not much delegation that can be done with these particular tasks,” Tom says. “We will have to be the ones to close the breaches and set up the gates, although your followers and Daedra will at least be able to help with those.”

I’m a little calmer with having given some orders and started some things in motion. It at least feels like I’m doing something, even if it’s something that I’m not sure will actually be able to make much progress.

I might be a hypocrite for being so angry with Molag Bal for taking a soul that should have belonged to me. I did, after all, take a number of vampires whose souls would have been destined to go to him. It might have been a fair act, but it’s still an act of war, and I will absolutely find a way to destroy him for it. I will disembowel him and hang up his entrails like Yuletide garland. I will rip out his eyeballs and—

“Lexen, you’re thinking too loudly again,” Abraxas says. “Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll leave you guys to it. I need to let off some steam. Possibly volcanically.”


	3. Death and Life

“Are you going to get back on breach duty, Theryn?” Rispy asks.

“I’m not sure there’s a point,” Theryn says. “You guys can seal them better and don’t need the Augur to find them, apparently.”

“Tell me you’re not going to put me back on a shelf somewhere,” the Augur says.

“No,” Theryn says. “And not a soggy chest, either. What do you want to do?”

“You know, people don’t generally bother to ask that,” the Augur says. “But here you are, asking me a direct question, and I’m bound to answer truthfully. I want to travel and hang out with you guys. You seem to be doing interesting things and going interesting places.”

“If you want to go after the breaches, we can lend you one of the amulets,” Siris says. “Or you can travel with one of our groups. Up to you.”

“I was really just going around sealing those breaches for something to do and an excuse to travel,” Theryn admits. “The Psijic Order was a good cover for existing in the world and not being entirely up to speed on the details of the world and current events. But even most of them didn’t know I’m from another world. I guess I don’t need to hide that from you guys.”

“It’s always good to have a group of people you don’t need to lie to,” Gellion says.

“I’m surprised you guys seem to trust me so readily,” Theryn says.

“Rispy vouched for you,” Siris says. “That makes you okay in my book. Wanna come with us to Morrowind and try to track down a missing young man?”

“That sounds as good a place as any to start,” Theryn says. “Rispy, what are you going to be doing?”

“My own prospects are a bit limited,” Rispy says. “Goblins are not well-accepted in this world. My best bet is to put on a hat that covers my ears and try to pass as an Orc boy.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Theryn says.

“What’s your skill set, Theryn?” Siris asks. “I take it you know how to use that bow on your back?”

Theryn nods. “Good with the bow, okay with daggers, and great at, uh, necromancy.” She pauses and looks at them as if expecting to be judged for it.

“Might want to keep that last to where you won’t get arrested for it,” Siris says. “But no need to worry about what _we_ might think of it.”

“I’m starting to get that,” Theryn says. “Even my guild on Azeroth always looked at me funny about it. I always had to wonder what they’d think once we were no longer dealing with undead and needed someone who could turn the tide against them. Would things have gotten better or worse?”

“It’s hard to say,” Rispy says. “I’d like to think they’d have been accepting. You were a damned hero in the end, after all.”

Theryn retrieves her belongings from Artaeum and brings them to the Shivering Isles, where she’s been given generous accommodations and access to an absolutely ridiculous storeroom. These people had been even more intent upon gathering a collection of junk than her guild on Azeroth had been. To be fair, though, that guild didn’t have an infinite extradimensional space in which to store their junk and they might just have managed the same thing if they had. Collecting junk seems to be a universal habit of adventurers on every planet.

She opts to go with Dunmer-style netch leather armor, all the while wondering what exactly a netch is. If she’s going to pretend to be a dark elf rather than a night elf, she might as well look the part.

“And remember, if anyone calls you an n’wah, slap them,” Siris says. “Or at least glare at them.”

“I take it that’s an insult?” Theryn asks.

“It means ‘outlander’, basically,” Siris says. “Except it’s a really offensive way of saying it. Nobody’s going to mistake your accent for being a native-born Dunmer. Stick with the half-Nord story. Claiming to be half-Altmer will work if you’re visiting Aldmeri Dominion territory, but around Ebonheart Pact territory, it won’t win you any points.”

“Understood,” Theryn says. “How did you guys deal with it?”

“We’ve kind of been fortunate with world traveling, in that we’re generally ‘woven into’ a world when we arrive. We ‘become’ people who already exist in the world, along with their lives and memories. Well. Normally, anyway. This time around, the memories have wound up a bit of a mess. The time anomalies really fucked things up.”

Theryn adjusts the armor and looks at herself in the mirror. “I think that’s as Dunmer as I’m going to get. Shall we get moving? Time’s a wasting and you’ve waited on me long enough.”

* * *

Theryn comes down out of the shrine and looks out over the town below the cliff. This is going to be a real test of her disguise and she’s a little nervous about it. Psijic robes made sure nobody in Summerset questioned her too hard, but now she was just trying to pass for a normal adventurer and not a mysterious sage from a mysterious island.

She needn’t have worried too much about it. While she does get some odd looks when she comes into the town with Siris and Moony, no one actually says anything.

“Let’s check the guild tents,” Siris says. “Before they left, they’d said something about wanting to join the Mages or Fighters Guilds.”

Theryn quietly follows along after them, taking in their surroundings and pausing for a moment in front of another of the lizard-people trying to tell jokes in front of an unappreciative knot of people. Argonian, she reminds herself. The lizard people are called Argonians. His jokes don’t make much sense to her, but then, given the reactions he’s getting, she probably shouldn’t feel bad about that since nobody else seems to find them funny either.

“Good day, travelers,” says the Dunmer man at the tent marked with a red sword banner. “I’m Dyleso, steward of the Fight Guild in Kragenmoor. Are you looking to join?”

“Maybe,” Siris says. “We were looking for a couple of friends of ours who said they might be joining. Nord twins by the names of Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter. Did they come by here?”

“Oh, yes,” Dyleso says. “They came by and joined the Fighters Guild about two weeks ago. Haven’t seen them since. I think they might have been headed for Davon’s Watch after joining the Mages Guild.”

“They joined both?” Siris asks.

“I believe so, yes,” Dyleso says.

“You can do that?” Theryn wonders in puzzlement.

“I don’t see why not,” Dyleso says.

Theryn had no idea how ‘guilds’ were supposed to work around here, although the idea of being in more than one seemed a bit odd. She’d joined the Psijic Order, sure, but now that she’d joined this Marauders group she probably isn’t going to have as much to do with the Psijics anymore, and now the Marauders are randomly joining other groups? Why?

“Sure, let’s sign up too,” Siris says, Moony nodding in agreement.

“Uh, okay…” Theryn says dubiously.

“I’m sure you’ll be splendid additions to the guild,” Dyleso says after taking their names. “Good luck in finding your friends.”

As they’re walking away from the tent, Theryn asks, “Why did we just do that?”

“The guilds can provide some benefits while asking very little of you,” Siris says. “Honestly, in my experience, they don’t even seem to care if you just sign up and then proceed to ignore them forever. Let’s go join the Mages Guild too.”

“Is this a Tamriel thing or a Marauders thing?” Theryn asks.

“I think we might abuse it more than most…” Siris says with a chuckle.

The Mages Guild in a tent on the other side of the town says much the same thing as the Fighters Guild, telling that the two Nords had joined their guild and had been directed to the city of Davon’s Watch.

“Well, it sounds like we’re heading for Davon’s Watch,” Siris says. “That’s the only lead we’ve got, really.”

“How do we get there?” Theryn asks. “Portals? Mounts? Flight?”

“Lexen’s fond of flying carpets, but they attract a bit too much attention,” Siris says with a smirk. “It gets weird to be on the angle of pretending to be normal. It makes it easier to operate in the world, but it’s damned inconvenient sometimes. Anyway, we’re going to need to travel by foot along the main road so we can search for evidence they’ve been by. Not much help in going straight to Davon’s Watch if it turns out they were ambushed next to a cave a mile out of Kragenmoor.”

“If you’re capable of getting to Davon’s Watch rapidly, wouldn’t it make more sense to go there and check if they arrived safely and only backtrack if they haven’t?” Theryn asks.

“That’s one reason we needed to get to work out in the world,” Moony says. “We haven’t actually set up the rapid transit network yet. Being able to travel instantly to any major city is very nice… but it takes a lot of work to set up and we have not yet had time to do so.”

Theryn nods. “Understood. Walking it is, then.”

Morrowind was far from the worst place Theryn had ever visited, even taking into account the active volcanoes and ash storms. At least there were no giant constructs tromping through the place occasionally emitting a hellish drone that made sure you were going to be running for cover if it hadn’t already seen you. Comparatively, the hostile insect-like creatures were positively pleasant. They reached another city, called Ebonheart, and learned the twins had stayed the night there.

Once they actually reached Davon’s Watch, Theryn was almost starting to like Morrowind. Summerset was lovely, to be sure, but she did not trust it _at all_. The most beautiful places had a tendency to be the most pernicious.

“Welcome to the Watch House,” says a Dunmer woman serving drinks. “The finest inn in Davon’s Watch. Coincidentally also the closest one to the gates. I’m Nela Sethri. What can I get for you today?”

“We’re looking for a couple of friends of ours,” Siris says. “A pair of Nord siblings, name of Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter. They were supposed to meet up with us days ago but we haven’t heard word from them. Did they stop here?”

“Those two?” Nela says. “Yes, they came in a week ago. Haven’t seen them since that morning, though. I was wondering when they might come back. They left some of their belongings here.”

“They just disappeared?” Siris asks with a frown.

“Seems like it,” Nela says. “I already looked through their things after they’d been gone a few days to see if there might be some hint to where they went, but there wasn’t anything of note. Just potions and supplies. No messages or journals or anything. Sorry. I hate to nose around like that, you know? But I was worried about those kids. They seemed so young and eager, and I’d hate them to come to a bad end. The world can be a harsh place.”

Siris and Moony exchange grim looks. “Thanks. We’ll ask around town and see if we can figure out who last saw them.”

Once outside on the streets again, Theryn says quietly, “So this is it, then? Somebody in or near Davon’s Watch must have been the culprit…”

“I don’t know how much good asking around will do,” Moony says. “There wasn’t anything particularly distinct about them beyond being young Nord siblings.”

“We can try, at any rate,” Siris says.

They spend the better part of the remainder of the day asking questions around town. Theryn mostly lets the other two do the talking, since they are the ones familiar with this world, while she stands back and investigated with her eyes and overly-large ears. If Dranney had been killed as well, at best, they could be hoping to find bodies, a murder weapon, maybe even the murderer themselves if they were foolish. Absently, she cycles through the various detection spells she knows. Detect humanoids picks up all the townspeople, beasts picks up on some assorted livestock and pets, detecting demons makes Siris and Moony light up, and detection for constructs, dragonkin, and undead comes up empty, thankfully.

The day ends with nothing further accomplished, and while Siris and Moony didn’t seem the least bit tired, Theryn is. She’s not sure if they even need sleep. As the sky grows dark, she’s just about to point out to them that she does need to sleep when she spots something suspicious out of the corner of her eye. When she turns to look, it’s gone, so she starts going through detections again. Undead. There’s an undead watching them from the shadows. Invisible, but not invisible enough.

“Siris, Moony,” Theryn whispers. “Don’t look now, but we’re being watched.”

She doesn’t smell the heavy scent of rotting flesh or musty bones, so it has to be one of the better preserved types, or a noncorporeal one. Hostile? Hard to say, but she has to assume yes. Non-hostile undead frequently want to whine at you, anyway. Casually, she removes an object from her pack, her Rod of Domination. It’s too short to pass as a mage staff, and a bit awkward to carry around in her pack. Her old guild had examined it but couldn’t figure out a way to duplicate or modify it without risking damaging its enchantments. It had taken her a while to even trust them with that much. Maybe her new friends will know more.

Siris and Moony, for their part, seem well-practiced in subtly preparing for trouble without looking like it. A few quiet spells are cast. Siris looks down at a map in his hands intently before putting it away.

The three of them make a show of ‘letting’ themselves get cornered in an alley. At one end, Theryn detects a few living humanoids blocking off their exit, and on the other, the undead signature fades into view. A golden-skinned elf with glowing eyes.

“You people have been asking a lot of questions,” says the vampire. Definitely a vampire.

“Oh, absolutely,” Siris says lightly. “And I think it’s about time we start getting some answers, too.”

“You really think you can dictate terms to _me_?” the vampire says. “You are surrounded and outnumbered.”

Theryn says quietly, “You two take care of the others. I’ll deal with the vampire.”

“You’ll _deal with me_?” the vampire snorts even as Siris and Moony move to engage his lackeys. “You have no idea what you are up against. I—”

Theryn holds the rod aloft and channels power through it, slamming it into his mind. The vampire cries out and falls to his knees, clutching his head. He’s fighting it, hard. Free-willed sentient undead are the most difficult to control and it only comes down to a battle of wills to see who comes out on top, and for how long.

“Don’t fight me and you might just be able to walk away from this,” Theryn grates out.

Off to the left, Siris and Moony have made quick work of the vampire’s lackeys, who were _completely_ unprepared to be going up against a group of skilled adventurers.

“We could have left one of them alive to question,” Moony says.

“Eh, they probably didn’t know anything, anyway,” Siris says. “What’s Aldimion have to say for himself?”

“Is that his name?” Theryn asks.

“You—” Aldimion grates out, but can’t manage to finish the sentence.

“Submit, Aldimion,” Theryn says. “You can’t win here. Even if you can shake off my domination, we’d just kill you anyway. Best just answer our questions. It would be less painful for you.”

So far as vampires went, this one did not feel very high up in the power hierarchy. His resistance crumbled under the pressure. “What… what do you wish to know?”

“What are you doing in Davon’s Watch?” Siris asks.

Aldimion groans softly.

“Answer the question, Aldimion,” Theryn says.

“Finding victims,” Aldimion murmurs slowly.

“For what purpose?” Theryn asks. “Just your own food, or something more?”

“Sacrifices…” Aldimion whispers.

“Who are you working for?” Theryn asks.

Aldimion is silent for a long moment before grating out the words, “Worm… Cult…”

“Who have you sacrificed?” Siris asks. “Dunmer? Nords? Argonians? Give us a list.”

Aldimion groans again and slumps his head back against the wall. “Four… four Dunmer, three males and one female. One Argonian… gender inconclusive, who can tell with those lizards. A pair of Nords, male and female, think they were kin…”

“Who do you report to?” Moony asks.

Glowing eyes fixated on nothing, Aldimion puts a hand against the wall and starts trying to struggle to his feet again.

“My control is slipping,” Theryn says, gripping her rod tightly. “Kill him.”

Siris doesn’t need to be told twice. One powerful fire spell strikes the vampire dead-on and engulfs him, reducing him to ash in moments.

“Lexen’s not going to like this,” Moony says.

“Not in the least,” Siris agrees. “They were both murdered.”

“At least we have a lead, of sorts,” Moony says. “But what is this Worm Cult?”

“Nothing good, I’m guessing,” Theryn says, gazing at the pile of ash for a long moment before putting her rod away. “And to think I’d been hoping to finally be _done_ with undead and necromancers.”

* * *

Time passes strangely when you’re dead. There’s no physical sensation of hunger, thirst, or fatigue, so you don’t have a biological clock to give an indication on the passage of time. And without a periodic change of light in the sky, there’s no external indicators either.

Worse, her only company is two skeletons laying out on ragged, flea-ridden bedrolls, which opens up another host of questions. She’s already dead. Can she die again? Were these living people who were brought here who subsequently died? Or other dead like her—what was she? A ghost or something?—who had somehow died? She spends way too much time pondering the question and trying to interrogate their skulls. Thankfully, she hasn’t started imagining them talking back yet. Although interrogating something that isn’t talking back might be crazier than hallucinating voices? She’s not sure. She’ll have to ask her cousin once she gets out of here.

Her only break from boredom is Daedra who would stop by her cell to taunt her. Thankfully, none of them actually come into the cell. She’s starting to wonder if whoever has the keys even knows she’s in here. Or cares.

Sometimes she stares at her map, even though it doesn’t say anything new. She’s long since located Dranney, in another cell. She hasn’t been able to get through to Lexen again. She’s not even sure he got much of her message at all the last time. Other times, she examines her amulet when she’s sure no Daedra are nearby, even praying to Akatosh a couple times on the off-chance he might be listening, too. He doesn’t respond, either. When she’s feeling particularly productive, she practices spells quietly, for whatever good that might do her. It’s difficult to work magicka here, but she’s glad to be able to at all.

Then, one day, insofar as she can tell what day it is, something happens. The Daedra on the map are moving faster than usual, and a dot pops up in _blue_ rather than red, indicating a living mortal rather than a Daedra or dead person. A name appears over it as it gets close: Lyris Titanborn.

Hillyn leaps to her feet wide-eyed, barely remembering to deactivate the map and put it away. She runs up to the cell bars and looks out. A small, hapless Daedra in the corridor outside turns to look, too slow. A massive battle axe cleaves through the creature in one powerful movement.

Her eyes follow up the strong arms holding the axe to a blonde woman, tall even for a Nord. She bears the battle axe with practiced ease, kicking away the pieces of the runt as she pulled the weapon free. Blue eyes turn toward Hillyn’s cell, and she approaches with confident grace. Despite being clad in simple rags like the prisoners here, Hillyn feels this Lyris Titanborn is the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

Hillyn is sure that if she still had a beating heart, it would be pounding.

“Are you alright?” Lyris asks.

“I’ve been better,” Hillyn replies. “Although with seeing a friendly face here, I can definitely say I’ve been _worse_.”

“Let’s get you out of there.” Lyris, completely undeterred at not having the key to the cell, proceeds to open it by use of a well-placed battle axe strike. “The name’s Lyris. Hope you can fight. Grab a weapon if you spot one and follow me if you want to get out of here.”

Hillyn grins madly and calls lightning to her fist. “I’d yell ‘Victory or Sovngarde’ but I think it’s a little late for that.”

Lyris barks a laugh. “You’ve still got spirit! Good! Glad to have you at my back.”

A group of prisoners, free of their cells, holds a door closed as a rhythmic pounding hammers on it from the other side. Everyone looks blue cast in the cold light of this hellish place.

As they approached the door at the end of the hall, a translucent projection of an old man with a staff appears before them. “Vestige. I am a prisoner in this place. Find me, and we can escape from this realm together.” The image vanishes before Hillyn can say anything.

“Who was that?” Hillyn asks.

“The Prophet!” Lyris says. “He must have seen something in you. He must think you can help me rescue him.”

“Gladly, but I’m not leaving without my brother,” Hillyn says.

“We may not have time to look for him,” Lyris says. “Do you know where he is?”

Hillyn nods and pulls out her map. “That way!”

Lyris comes over and takes a look at it. “This map is amazing! Yes, if this is accurate, we take this corridor we can get straight to his cell without running into too many Daedra. Where did you _get_ this?”

Hillyn decides to go with flat truth. “It was a gift from the Madgod originally intended for setting up pranks on people. It came with me when I died because it’s one of those Daedric artifacts you literally can’t get rid of. But, not to worry, the map _is_ accurate.”

“Favored by the Madgod, huh,” Lyris says, raising an eyebrow, then heads toward the door. “Well, if he wants pranks played on the Lord of Brutality today, I think we can oblige.”

Hillyn follows after Lyris, keeping magic at hand to blast Daedra or heal her. She was a beginner mage even before she died, but Lyris doesn’t complain at all, and surprisingly enough for a Nord, readily accepts her magic without disdain.

They reach Dranney’s cell and find him laying on the floor staring off listlessly into space.

“Dranney?” Hillyn asks plaintively as Lyris gets the door open, but her brother doesn’t stir. She goes up to him and grabs a hold of his upper arms, gently shaking him. “Dranney, wake up. It’s me, Hillyn. It’s your sister.”

Dranney groans and blinks slowly but doesn’t say anything coherent.

“Damn, he’s too far gone already,” Lyris says.

Hillyn shakes her head vehemently and feels around for Dranney’s amulet. That was what had really woken her up before. But she can’t find it on him.

“Dranney, where’s your amulet?” Hillyn asks, but again he doesn’t manage any words. “Lyris, do you see a blue crystal amulet of Akatosh around here?”

Lyris glances about the cell and looks under the ratty bedrolls. “Here it is! He must have hidden it so it wasn’t taken from him.”

“Great,” Hillyn says, taking the amulet from her and slipping it around Dranney’s neck, making sure the crystal is in contact with his skin.

Dranney blinks, jolting to alertness as if he’d just downed twenty skoomas in rapid succession. His eyes focus on the two of them. “Hillyn! Oh, thank Akatosh. Who’s our new friend?”

“Her name is Lyris Titanborn,” Hillyn says.

“How’d you know my last name?” Lyris asks.

Hillyn points to the map again with a crooked grin. “I hope you know where to go from here.”

“We should keep moving,” Lyris says. “We’ll need to destroy a construct the God of Schemes uses to watch his prison if we’re going to rescue the Prophet and get out of here ourselves.”

“Who?” Dranney asks.

“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Lyris says. She headed off down the corridor, followed closely by the twins. “Are you aware of where you are?”

“No,” Dranney says.

“Coldharbour,” Hillyn says.

Dranney peers about. “Well, it’s pretty cold, but where’s the harbor?”

Hillyn rolls her eyes. “Coldharbour, as in Molag Bal’s realm of Oblivion. We’re dead. That asshole elf sacrificed us to his asshole god.”

“Well, fuck,” Dranney says.

“I’ll echo those sentiments,” Lyris says.

“Are you dead, too?” Dranney asks.

“No,” Lyris says. “I’m very much alive and intend to stay that way. The Prophet and I were brought to this realm in a more conventional manner and imprisoned here.”

“If we’re dead, is there a way we can get out of this place?” Dranney asks.

“Yeah,” Hillyn says. “If we can’t get back to Nirn, that’s fine but I’d like to at least get to the Shivering Isles somehow. It’s a lot nicer there.”

“I don’t know,” Lyris says. “But the Prophet surely knows a way.”

“Well, I didn’t have anything better to do,” Dranney says. “Lead on.”

They make their way through the prison, occasionally fighting off another Daedra, but the guards are too spread out to bring much threat against them. Dranney grabs a wicked-looking battle axe that practically screamed ‘evil’ along the way and put it to good use. But when they come to the door that should have led to where the Prophet is being held, they discover wards have been activated and they’ll need to find another way.

“Let me check my map…” Hillyn murmurs, unfolding it and poring over it.

Lyris, peering over her shoulder, frowns and says, “We’re trying to get _here_.” She points at a spot on the map. “It’s hard to tell what routes might actually be open, but there has to be a way.”

“There’s always a way,” Dranney says. “Sometimes it might involve digging through ten feet of solid rock, but there’s always a way.” He smirks.

“We might be able to get in if we follow the river,” Hillyn says.

“It’s worth a shot,” Lyris says. “Let’s get moving.”

* * *

An encounter with a mad minstrel and a slog through a trap-filled maze later sees them at the Prophet’s cell. Hillyn examines the map and sees another living dot ahead.

“Varen Aquilarios,” Hillyn says. “Is that him?”

Lyris hesitates and looks at the map and sees what Hillyn is seeing. “Y-yes, that’s him.”

“A mouthful of a name,” Dranney says. “I can see why he goes by ‘The Prophet’.”

“Must be an Imperial.” Hillyn puts the map away.

“Right…” Lyris says, looking like she wants to say something but instead just heading into the next room.

Suspended in the air in the middle of the room, the old man hovers, screaming from time to time as dark magic encircles him and holds him firmly in place. It’s at that point that Lyris informs them of how they’re going to get him out.

“The only way to free him is for another living being to swap places with him,” Lyris says. “And I’m the only one here that’s actually still alive.”

“This is incredibly stupid,” Dranney says. “Is that really the best plan you’ve got? Ugh. That’s the trouble with most Nords. I mean, myself included sometimes, I’ll freely admit. But really. Brute force your way through every problem, mundane or magical.”

“If you have any better ideas, I’m all ears,” Lyris says. “But unfortunately we don’t have time to examine it in depth to try to find another way to disrupt it. The Lord of Domination knows we’ve escaped and there are almost certainly more Daedra on their way.”

“I don’t like this, either,” Hillyn says. “What makes him more important than _you_?”

“The Prophet—Varen—is a powerful mage and with his visions, Molag Bal might be stopped before he destroys everything we care about. I’m just a warrior. You can find a dozen of me at the nearest Fighters Guild, but you will not find another Prophet. And I don’t even know how to get myself out of here, never mind you two. He might.”

“No better options on hand, then,” Hillyn says in a strained tone. “My cousin always says, or at least has said on a couple of occasions, do whatever works first and figure out a better way when you have time. Fine, but I swear we will find a way to get you out as soon as we can. I won’t leave you to rot in this place.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Lyris says. “Let’s do this.”

Working the controls to swap them turns out to be much easier than watching Lyris fly screaming through the air, passing through the old man and expelling him onto the floor between the twins.

“Are you alright?” Hillyn asks.

“I can’t imagine he would be, after all that,” Dranney says.

“I am free, and that alone makes me better than I have been in a long time, Vestige,” the Prophet says.

“Vestige?” Hillyn asks.

“It is the name I have given you, as you are but a remnant of your former self.”

“Look, I know people sometimes decide to treat twins as one person,” Dranney says in frustration. “But seriously, there are two of us!”

The Prophet pauses for a long moment. “Vestiges. This is not the way I foresaw this going. But it seems Akatosh has sent you to me.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Dranney says. “Because I’m going to have _words_ with the Dragon God if he let us get murdered just to save your sorry ass.”

“Dranney, there’s no need to be crude,” Hillyn says.

“Strange, I sense something…” the Prophet muses. “You are carrying divine relics? Of Akatosh?”

“Yeah,” Dranney says. “We’ve got these ‘special’ amulets that were made with crystals I’m told were blessed by Akatosh himself.”

“They’re probably the only reason we’re as sane and alert as we are,” Hillyn says.

“Sis, I don’t think sanity is really our destiny.”

“We need hurry if we are to escape from this place,” the Prophet says. “Lyris’ sacrifice must not be in vain. We must get to the anchor mooring, but you will need to be my eyes.”

“You’re blind?” Dranney asks as Hillyn looks at the map to find out which way to go.

“Yes,” the Prophet says. “Studying the Elder Scrolls does not come without a price. For every insight gleaned, one’s vision dims a little more. But the Scrolls have shown me many things that have been and could be in the past, present, and future.”

“And that’s why you call yourself the Prophet?” Dranney asks.

“Indeed so. My true name has been lost even to me.”

Dranney exchanges a look with Hillyn. “Isn’t your name Varen Aquilarios?”

The Prophet looks startled. “Where… where did you hear that name?”

“We’ve got magic that can identify someone’s name, among other things,” Dranney says. “If you’d rather be called the Prophet, that’s fine and I won’t mention it again.”

“Yes,” the Prophet says, recovering. “Thank you. It’s… a past I would rather put behind me, but one I’m afraid will come back to haunt us regardless.”

“I think I’ve found where we need to go,” Hillyn says. “Dranney, take point. I’ll guide the old man and keep an eye out for Daedra.”

An anchor mooring, as the Prophet explains, is an unholy contraption designed to pull Nirn into Coldharbour. Hillyn has no idea how that might work, but she’s sure her cousin will want to know about it, and so she gets as much information out of the Prophet as she can on the way down the corridor. She doesn’t understand it, but she memorizes what he says about it regardless.

Up ahead, giant spiked chains stretch into the sky amidst an icy-blue gate high above. Hillyn isn’t quite sure on the tactical benefit of _vertical_ portals, but Molag Bal surely had a reason for doing it this way. As they approach, a massive shadowy form emerges from the pit beneath the portal. Is that an avatar of Molag Bal himself? Hillyn guesses so. She tries to tell herself that Daedric Princes can look like anything they wish, especially in their own realm, and he was just using this form to be intimidating, but it doesn’t stop her from being intimidated.

“Still you seek to defy me?” Molag Bal says. “Fool! You will never escape my realm!”

“Oh, piss off, would you?” Dranney says even as the avatar vanishes.

“Dranney!” Hillyn hisses. “That’s the God of Brutality you’re talking to there!”

Dranney snorts. “And what’s he going to do? Torture my soul for all of eternity? That’s likely to happen anyway. Oh, look, he’s sending something to play with us.”

An enormous bone construct of some sort emerges from nowhere and attacks them. As Dranney attacks the creature, Hillyn stays back for a moment and tries to summon a scamp from the Shivering Isles. After a few moments of ritual casting, the little Daedra emerges with a whoosh and grins madly.

“Attack!” Hillyn directs it, bringing lightning to hand without pausing.

The Prophet made sure Dranney stays healed, as Hillyn blasts the bone construct. The scamp does a surprisingly admirable job of climbing onto it and pulling apart its joints. After a short but harrowing fight, no bones are connected enough to still put up a fight.

“Thanks for the help,” Hillyn tells the scamp. “When you get back to the Shivering Isles, tell your master I’ve escaped Coldharbour.”

The scamp nods eagerly, and she dismisses it. She wishes she’d thought of that sooner.

If the Prophet heard any of that, he makes no comment on it. “I will cast levitation spell to get us to the gate. But in order to exist in Nirn as physical beings again, you will need to absorb some Aetherial energy to do so, with a Skyshard. Your amulets can likely keep you safe, but would not serve to restore your corporeal bodies. I will summon Skyshards for you to absorb.”

With a ritual incantation, a pair of bright streaks of light fall at the feet of the twins, coalescing into pale blue crystals. While the light blue of the Skyshards are similar in hue to the light blue of Molag Bal’s realm, they’re warm while the other is cold, the blue of a summer sky rather than the blue of a winter lake. Upon touching it, a warmth flows from her shard into her, suffusing her entire form and banishing the lingering chill of Coldharbour.

The Prophet steps forward and raises hand and staff to the sky and begins another incantation, invoking Akatosh, Dragon God of Time.

Dranney whispers to Hillyn, “Isn’t this a bit much for a levitation spell?”

“Don’t be rude,” Hillyn hisses, elbowing him.

Once the incantation is complete, the Prophet urges them forward. “Quickly! The way is open! Let us be gone from this place!”

Hillyn and Dranney lock arms and approach the pit, looking up at the swirling, crackling blue disc above them. The Prophet’s spell takes hold of them and lifts them into the air, and they plunge through the gate.


	4. Plans and Meetings

A scamp that has just returned from being summoned is trying to get my attention. That’s unusual enough that I manifest next to it curiously.

“Message, Master!” the scamp squeaks, waving its arms in the arm. “Message!”

“What is your message, Zif?” I ask.

“Girl!” Zif shouts. “Girl tell message!”

“What is your message, Zif?” I repeat.

“Girl say tell Master she get out of nasty cold place!” Zif claps its clawed hands together. “Me helps girl, fights big bone thing! Rips and tears and breaks and snaps!”

“Hillyn?” I ask, wide-eyed. “Was it her?” I bring up a quick illusion.

Zif nods enthusiastically. “Is girl! Tall as house! Zif do good? Master happy with Zif?”

I grin widely and don’t manage to resist the urge to hug the scamp. “Zif, you have done _fabulously_.”

Zif meeps in surprise and blinks as the sky overhead starts to clear rapidly, and the sun shines over Mania for the first time in several days.

I put the scamp down. “Was there anyone else with her? A boy?”

Zif nods. “There boy too, look like girl, and there wrinkly old man-thing too!”

“Whoever this old man is, I’ll give him a hug when I see him, also.”

* * *

“We found a cultist hideout in Davon’s Watch and decided to co-opt it for a Madgod shrine instead,” Siris says. “And put a contingency spell on the entrance to keep watch if anyone shows up trying to find out what happened to their cell.”

I nod. “Good work. I’ll have to notify everyone to keep an ear to the ground for any information about this Worm Cult. I’ll spare them insisting that they come to a meeting.”

“I still think we should have just gone with linked journals or map notifications,” Siris says. “I had a lot of extra time on my hands in the last loop and spent some of it working on improving map functionality. I only have the two test copies made up at the moment and I hadn’t quite finished getting all the glitches worked out of the design. Turns out it was impossible to properly debug the map when the world itself was glitchy.”

“You want to focus on that for the time being?” I ask.

“If possible,” Siris says. “If we’re not needed for breach-closing, Remus and I can get the next version debugged and constructed.”

“I think we’ve got that covered at the moment, but I’ll notify you if they start opening more quickly than expected. Can I see your prototypes?”

Siris pulls out a small book to show me. “I’ve found the map more convenient when having a hard back behind it, so I decided to put a hard cover around it. The recent zoom feature makes it so the map itself doesn’t need to be huge in order to display everything. It hadn’t occurred to me to put a cover on it like a book until Dranney complained about having to poke it with his fingers to manipulate the display. The rest of us had already gotten used to it and we didn’t think about it anymore.” He chuckles.

“Sometimes all it takes is a new perspective,” I say with a grin. “Once you’ve got it ready and the twins get back here, you’ll need my help to update Hillyn’s map since it contains my essence. But, since it contains my essence, it should be easier to update.”

“I hope so,” Siris says. “I don’t look forward the prospect of trying to update one of the earlier maps. I changed too much and the way some of the enchantments interacted. But you also modified that one in other ways, so I don’t know. We’ll figure it out when the time comes.”

* * *

“After a cursory analysis of the device, I can conclude that the active portion is only the head of it,” Tom says, handing Theryn’s Rod of Domination back to her. “The shaft itself is only an inert handle and can be safely removed or replaced if desired.”

Theryn takes it and gives it a thoughtful look. “My old guild couldn’t make heads or tails of it. They didn’t exactly have any real experts on necromancy.”

“It’s a sophisticated design, on the top end for its class,” Tom says. “A lesser necromancer may be able to make a much weaker duplicate without too much hassle, but one that can control powerful undead like this would be very rare. There are probably only a handful of people in the world with that level of expertise.”

“Huh,” Theryn says. “It was probably given to D — er, the… undead lordling I took it from — by the Lich King, then, rather than something he made himself. No wonder the Lich King was so pissed at me for using it to turn his armies against him.”

“If you would like a more practical form, the enchanted head could be reattached to a longer staff shaft,” Tom says. “Or to a piece of armor. It’s a big large for jewelry.”

“Are you capable of duplicating it?” Theryn says.

“Yes,” Tom says. “However, I am not going to, at this time. I do not presently have the time to analyze and reverse-engineer its enchantments and may just develop my own enchantment from the ground up which would likely be more efficient and effective. Right now, all of my attention is focused upon temporal matters and working with the Psijic Order in order to find a way to resolve the anomalous timestream. Of course, should I learn that a necromancer is behind the temporal anomalies somehow, I will shift my priorities.”

“It would make for quite the hat,” Gellion interjects.

“If we make her a hat with large enough wings, people won’t notice her ears are longer than theirs,” Luna says.

“Luna, what are you doing here?” Tom says with a flat sigh. “I asked for Gellion’s necromantic expertise and thought his input may be valuable enough to listen to his snarky comments, but if you have acquired any knowledge in the field at some point, I am unaware of it.”

“I’m the moral support,” Luna says brightly.

“I do not require moral support,” Tom says.

“No, but Eternity’s Shadow might,” Luna says.

“Eternity’s… what?” Theryn wonders.

Tom sighs. “It would appear that she has chosen a mythic title for you as well. Bear it as you will.”

Theryn holds up the rod. “I think a piece of armor or something might work better. I’m not sure about a staff, though, as I’m not very good with most magic.”

“A belt buckle?” Gellion suggests.

Theryn rolls her eyes. “I am not putting the tip of my rod in front of my crotch.”

“If you want to put it on a staff, we can use one that will allow you to more easily use a particular type of magic, such as restoration or ice,” Tom suggests.

“You can get a longer shaft!” Gellion says.

“Gellion, if you wish to remain in this workshop, kindly refrain from further lewd comments or leave me be. Are you two just bored because you haven’t been out adventuring with Lexen lately?”

“He doesn’t even bother having a body most of the time,” Gellion grumbles.

Tom sighs. “While I can sympathize, if you are bored, then I trust you can handle Theryn’s equipment alterations yourself. I have work to do.”

* * *

Now that I’m calmer, I realize I didn’t actually pay attention to meeting Theryn after the trouble we’d gone to to track her down. She’d shown up at a bad time, after all. I find her reading in the far-less-intimidating little library in my palace where we’ve kept a few books that are useful and not just pretty much every book that has and will ever exist. I manifest an avatar across the room from her, a middle-aged Breton man wearing Madgod’s regalia.

Theryn jumps in startlement when I appear and she almost drops the book she was reading. “Oh, it’s you. The Madgod. What should I call you?”

“Let’s go with Lexen today,” I say. “While ‘Sheogorath’ really rolls off the tongue, it’s a bit too formal.”

“As you say,” Theryn says.

“I must apologize that I did not have the opportunity to properly make your acquaintance.” I pause thoughtfully. “No, that’s still too formal. Sorry I was feeling too ragey to chat with you earlier. You probably would not have enjoyed the conversation.”

“I understand,” Theryn says. “I mean, I never really had any relatives I was very close to, but you did have a reason to be in a bad mood.”

“Yeah,” I say. “So. Theryn Shadowhand. Where are you from? Because if you’re a Dunmer then I’m going to conjure up a hat and eat it.”

Theryn chuckles. “You would be correct. I’m not a Dunmer. I’m a night elf from Azeroth.”

“Another world?” I ask. “How did you get to Nirn?”

“I stepped into a portal that was supposed to take me to a city on Azeroth — well, floating in the air above Azeroth, but you get the idea — and wound up in Skyrim instead. Eastmarch, specifically, a bit of a ways west of Windhelm. One of the Psijics checked the location later but didn’t find anything there.”

“Was there anything unusual about this portal or the circumstances under which it was being used?”

Theryn shakes her head. “No. It was the sort of thing my guild used multiple times a day without ill effect. The only thing unusual in that case was that we’d just finished battling the Lich King. Which… went weird, but apparently Rispy and everyone else made it back alright.”

“Who cast it?” I ask.

“The guild’s main portal mage, another night elf by the name of Keolah.”

I blink. “Keolah?”

“Do you remember her?” Theryn asks. “Rispy tells me you spent the entire war against the Lich King fishing.”

“Not the one you knew in specific,” I say. “But I’ve met other versions of her. Out of curiosity, who else was in this guild of yours?”

“Well, let’s see…” Theryn muses. “There was a dwarf paladin by the name of Scregor, a night elf priestess named Kirlin Starfire, a human warlock named Susan Lawson, a draenei named Vanankyte, a night elf called Thorn who spent more time as a cat than a night elf…”

I don’t recall what a draenei is offhand and I don’t bother asking right now. Not important. As she rattles off names, I find myself thinking back to many people I’ve known and how many different reflections I’ve encountered of them, regardless of whether or not they were bonded to me.

Did I have it wrong? Did we really warp universes just by arriving in them, when we _weren’t_ the only ones who mysteriously appeared in universes in strikingly similar forms to those I’d seen in other universes? Was _me knowing someone_ enough to make a shift? Except it had happened with people I’d barely known or hadn’t even met yet who turned out to be reflections of others.

And then there’s Boethiah.

Nope. Not thinking about Boethiah.

“… and a night elf warrior named Lariole who used a ridiculously huge sword,” Theryn continues speaking.

“Other than Rispy, of course, did any of them know anything about other worlds?” I ask.

Theryn shrugs. “Aside from Outland?”

“Outland?”

“Also known as Draenor,” Theryn says. “It was another world. Someone opened a big portal between there and Azeroth at one point and people traveled back and forth between it at various points. Although Rispy said something about someone shifting the portal to redirect it to an alternate universe, time travel or something, but that hadn’t happened yet and it sounds incredibly confusing.”

“Was that anything unusual about the large gate besides its size?” I ask. “Sorry about all the questions. I’m not trying to interrogate you or anything here. This is just a puzzle I’ve been trying to crack for some time.”

“It’s fine,” Theryn says. “I’ll tell you anything I can, but I’m just not sure how much I can really help. I don’t know anything about _how_ portals work. Mages could open portals to the largest city on Outland, and ones on Outland could open portals back to Azeroth, without any trouble so far as I could tell. The gnomes and goblins had teleportation contraptions, too, but they were notoriously unreliable.”

“Azeroth and Outland-Draenor were just two worlds in the same universe, I’d suppose,” I say. “You weren’t going universe-to-universe.”

“I’m afraid knowing where one universe ends and another begins is beyond me,” Theryn says.

“And I doubt I’m going to get the opportunity to speak to an Azerothian portal mage anytime soon. Rispy certainly isn’t going to know anything, either. Were you the first or last one of your guildmates to cross the portal? And did you experience anything during the liminal transference, or did you simply appear in Skyrim?”

“I was the last one through,” Theryn says. “I’d paused for a moment to take one last look at the place where we’d just done battle, then quickly stepped through when I realized it was about to close.”

“Tell me about the fight,” I say. “Was there anything unusual about it that might have disrupted the portal’s destination at the last minute?”

Theryn sighs. “I don’t know. The fight with the Lich King went weird, but it was done with before the portal was opened. That’s all I know, sorry.”

“I’ll try and investigate it further,” I say. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Oh, by the way, your friends? There are alternate versions of some of them here. That priestess you mentioned, Kirlin Starfire, for one thing, is now an Orc by the name of Kaspia gra-Blokh. You saw her at the war meeting. She won’t remember anything of that world, though.”

“That’s… weird,” Theryn says.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s not the first time I’ve encountered it and I don’t know what to make of it myself. Anyway. I hope you’re settling in well enough. Is there anything in particular that you need?”

Theryn shakes her head. “Your friends have been very accommodating.”

* * *

Hillyn stirs slowly, sore all over but finding herself laying on something very comfortable. A bed, with a real mattress and pillows, even. She can’t complain about the aches, though. They mean she’s alive, after all, or at least something resembling it. She remembers escaping from Coldharbour and jumping through a portal, but nothing after that. Apparently somebody found her and was kind enough to put her in a bed.

Across the room, on the other side of a divider, Dranney is still dozing on another bed. She decides to leave him be for the moment.

As she’s heading for the door to figure out where she’s ended up, a ghostly image of the Prophet appears before her. “Ah, the Vestige awakens.”

“One of us, at any rate,” Hillyn says, nudging Dranney, who is already starting to wake at the sound of voices. “What did you do, put a contingency spell on us or something? Or are you just sitting wherever you are scrying on us while we sleep?”

“We were separated upon our arrival on Nirn,” the Prophet says. “I was afraid that might happen. You and your brother remained in contact during the transversal, which allowed you to appear in the same location. I have been watching you to ensure that you are well. You appeared above frigid waters and were rescued and brought to the village in which you now find yourself. I, on the other hand, arrived in a place hot and dry, filled with soot and ash. The dark elf land of Morrowind.”

“Are you alright?” Hillyn asks. “I’d hate for you to stumble into a flow of molten lava.”

“I found my way to a nearby cave and have taken refuge here,” the Prophet says. “Do not worry about me. You must find your own path. Molag Bal threatens all of Nirn, and his reach may be felt near and far. Wherever he goes, he must be thwarted, that the world may find a way free of grave peril.”

“Do you have anyone who can bring you food, drink, and supplies?” Hillyn asks.

The Prophet’s transparent lips quirk into a faint grin. “Your concern is touching and appreciated, but I am well. I have already made arrangements. Be cautious, Vestiges. The world is a dangerous place, and all the more so when the will of Molag Bal looms across the land. You may, if you so choose, seek out those who may aid you, or those to whom you may give aid.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hillyn says. “I don’t know about saving the world, but I’m sure I can stop bad things from happening somewhere. And I’ve got some friends who can help, too. What about Lyris? I won’t leave her in that place. Do you have any thoughts on how to save her?”

“Agreed,” the Prophet says. “I will need to consider things and attempt to divine where they have taken her, because they will surely have moved her after Molag Bal taunted us himself.”

“Couldn’t he have stopped us?” Dranney wonders. “It was an annoying fight but way too easy for what he was supposedly trying to do. I feel like he let us escape. And Daedric Lords are in total control of their realms. He could have simply closed the gate at any time.”

“They are not all-powerful, even in their own realms,” the Prophet says. “Particularly not when their reach has been overextended as much as Molag Bal has done.”

“You sure he isn’t just bad at being himself?” Dranney mumbles.

Hillyn has to think that Sheogorath would have been able to stop them, but she doesn’t really want to let the Prophet know her cousin is the Madgod just now. She’s not looking forward to that conversation.

“I called upon Akatosh to aid us in our escape,” the Prophet says. “Molag Bal may be supreme lord in his own realm but his power still does not hold a candle to the greatest of the Aedra.”

“Akatosh must really like us, then,” Dranney says.

“We are most fortunate,” the Prophet says. “Alas, this brief talk has drained me. I must rest. When you are ready, find me in a ruin in the cliffs, west of Davon’s Watch. Good luck to you both.” The image fades away into thin air.

“So where _are_ we, anyway?” Dranney wonders.

Hillyn pulls out her map and activates it. “Someplace called Bleakrock Island, apparently.” She frowns thoughtfully. “How does it do that, anyway? Is there a naming spell for places? Or is it just checking with the big map?”

“You’ll have to ask the Marauders later,” Dranney says. “I, for one, am going to find something to eat. Coming, sis?”

“I’m not hungry,” Hillyn says. “I’m going to try to contact Lexen again and let him know where we are.”

“Have fun with that.” Dranney gives a lazy half-wave and heads out of the room.

Hillyn takes a seat on the bed and folds her legs, and lays out the map in front of her. {Hi Sheogorath. It’s me, Hillyn. Can you hear me now?}

{Loud and clear!} comes the reply in her head. {I got your scamp. Where are you?}

{Someplace called Bleakrock Island, off the coast of Skyrim, it looks like,} Hillyn says. {Dranney is with me.}

{Are you okay?}

{Yeah,} Hillyn muses. {I think I’m still dead, but a very solid and stable form of dead now. The old man who we escaped with helped us reattune ourselves to Nirn. And I hope you know what that means because I don’t.}

{I will destroy that fetching son of a pustulent skeever for that. Molag Bal, that is, not your old man. The old man gets a cookie. All the cookies he wants, really.}

{I tried to get some information from him about what’s going on in the world,} Hillyn goes on. {About what Molag Bal is doing. He’s not just invading Nirn. He’s trying to make it one with his realm.}

{He’s _what_? How does he presume he can accomplish _that_?}

{I don’t know,} Hillyn replies. {But it gave me an opening to get out of there through one of his gates, at least. I was hoping you might know or be able to do something with the information.}

{Yes, thank you. This is very disturbing. I need to contact some people and make some preparations. Do you need anything?}

{No, I think I’m fine, cousin. I just need to get my bearings and figure out what I’m going to do from here. Probably attempt a do-over of my aborted adventuring career with a caveat that I’m already dead. This sounds like _you_ level of weird.}

* * *

I call a war meeting. I hate to interrupt all the things people are doing that are much more important than meetings, so I don’t demand anyone actually show up and just briefly mention what it’s regarding. There’s one more person who needs to be here, though, and that requires sending out an invitation across the void-ocean of Oblivion.

“Are you seriously inviting _him_ here?” Kaspia asks, planting her green Orc hands on the table.

“He’s as involved in this as we are,” I say.

“Well, forgive me that I’m going to try blending into the background here,” Kaspia says. “I don’t care if you like him or not, I still find Mehrunes Dagon to be mildly terrifying.”

“That’s fair,” I say.

Mehrunes arrives surprisingly promptly, in the four-armed form he usually uses when visiting the Shivering Isles, a bit taller than most Nords but not so tall that he’d have to duck to get in through the doorway. Ducking through doorways is embarrassing and Abraxas is glaring at me again. Right, I’m going to make sure my narration goes straight into my memory machine and not into the heads of my soul-bonded companions.

“Sheogorath,” Mehrunes says.

“Mehrunes,” I say. “Are you settling into this time period well enough?”

“Everything seems to be in order,” Mehrunes says. “Except that it’s really not. I don’t remember much of this time period, but some of what I do remember does not match up to what is going on now.”

I nod. “We may have wound up in another alternate universe.”

“So even what I _do_ remember might be different anyway,” Mehrunes grumbles. “I wasn’t paying much attention to Nirn during this time period. Most of my attention was on something that is no longer important. If I ever thought I’d be traveling back in time, I would have paid more attention to the details. And apparently that _still_ would not have mattered.”

“What are your plans?” I ask.

Mehrunes grunts. “Find out what’s going on and meddle. And make sure _you_ can get Nirn in a state that it’s still interesting to meddle in. I don’t plan on launching a pointless invasion. And it doesn’t seem like the liminal barriers are even up right now anyway. What _is_ going on there?”

He taps the map to reset the view and bring up a display of active Oblivion gates across Tamriel. Points of light scatter across the landscape, the vast majority of them in one particular icy blue shade.

“Molag Bal?” Mehrunes says. “ _What_ is Molag Bal doing?”

“That’s what I called this meeting about,” I say. “He’s trying to merge Nirn with his own realm.”

“Is that even possible?” Gellion asks.

“Those Dark Anchors are literally tearing pieces of Nirn into Oblivion gates,” Rispy says.

“To be fair, I mean, we were kind of doing the same thing,” I say. “We were just bringing many, many tiny pieces of Nirn in our pockets to the Shivering Isles. But that sort of scale is ridiculous.”

“You brought a giant tree in,” Gellion points out.

“They came willingly!” I protest.

“Because Mehrunes’ Dremora were about to kill them,” Gellion adds.

“There was also the Clockwork City,” Tom adds. “But yes. This is a much larger scale, even considering those two rather large pieces.”

“Do you know what this would mean?” Mehrunes says. “ _I_ just wanted to reach in to play on Nirn. Bal wants to take the whole thing and devour it all! And if he were to actually succeed in doing so, that would mean he would be able to claim all the Aedric energy that went into its creation. It seems _incredibly_ unlikely that he could succeed at this, but if it weren’t possible I doubt he’d even try.”

“The liminal barriers were down for most of the Second Era, I think,” I say. “Until Tiber Septim did his thing.”

“Uh… Lexen?” Hermione says. “About that…”

“What, Hermione?” I ask.

“There’s no Talos in this timeline,” Hermione says. “Normally that would be unsurprising seeing as Tiber Septim hasn’t even been born yet to become Talos, but it’s my understanding that his apotheosis was retroactive, along with his alteration of Cyrodiil’s climate.”

“The Missing God is once again missing,” Luna says absently.

I peer at the map. “Cyrodiil. Not jungle. Also under attack by Daedra, apparently, even more so than everywhere else.”

“There’s a massive gate directly over the White-Gold Tower,” Rispy says.

“If Bal gets his claws on that…” Mehrunes growls. “No. We need to stop him.”

“You want to save the world?” Kaspia asks, surprised enough that she forgets she was trying to blend into the background.

Mehrunes chuckles darkly. “If what Molag Bal is attempting succeeds, none of us are going to be able to play on Nirn any longer. This isn’t to anyone’s benefit but Molag Bal. He would easily be able to dominate all of us if he were to do manage this. It’s a power-grab, plain and simple, and an incredibly brash one at that.”

“To think the time breaches weren’t already enough of a problem,” Gellion says.

“Have you found a way to deal with those yet?” Mehrunes asks.

“Working on it,” I say. “I’ve got teams out tracking them down and sealing them, and hopefully in the process find out what’s causing them. The timeline has remained stable thus far, at least.”

Mehrunes nods. “Good. I think I’m going to pay a few house calls, and let some people know exactly what Molag Bal is up to. A simple invasion, they might not bother to intervene. This, though? Even if he ultimately fails, the more he takes from Nirn, the more powerful he will become.”

“Like he isn’t powerful enough as it is,” I mutter. “Why would people want to worship _him_ more than me? That’s crazy.”

Soft snickering around the room.

“Reminds me,” I say. “Mehrunes? Want to piggyback on each other’s temples?”

“How do you mean?” Mehrunes asks.

“Like how Ald Daedroth and some of the other temples have shrines to more than one Prince in them,” I say. “I’ve been claiming some new locations again. We could put new shrines to you in some of those places, and shrines to me in some of your temples. More connections we’re getting energy in from isn’t a bad thing.” I pause. “Unless you consider us _bad_ , but we’re trying to save the world so that’s _good_ , but we’re just trying to save the world so we can play with it, so is that bad again?”

“Well, you _are_ technically the ‘Bad Daedra’,” Gellion points out.

I snort. “Like the ‘Good Daedra’ are much better anyway. Pfah. Can we kick Molag Bal out of the ‘House of Troubles’ for being an antisocial dick trying to take the whole cookie jar for himself, and replace him with, I dunno, Sanguine or somebody instead?”

“More temples, yes,” Mehrunes agrees. “And if you wish to contact Sanguine, you are welcome to do so. He will probably welcome you more than me. And I believe we can count on Malacath to rage about the unfairness of the universe, so I will speak with him. I’ll send one of my lieutenants to you in order to make arrangements about setting up shrines.” He sighs. “All that work in the future setting up an invasion, gone to waste. Although on the up side, I did learn some things about how to invade Nirn without having actually invaded Nirn in this timeline.”

“Like what?” I wonder.

“Never open permanent Oblivion gates in Black Marsh,” Mehrunes says. “Don’t piss off the Hist.”

I blink. “The … sentient tree things? I’ll keep that in mind.” I frown thoughtfully. “Is the Hist something we might be able to get on our side against Molag Bal?”

“I would not know where to even begin to getting on the good side of telepathic trees from another dimension. I’m sure _you_ might be able to find a way, though. By thinking so far outside the box you’re in the sky.”


	5. Bleakrock Isle

“Ah, the sister awakens at last,” says a dark elf woman outside the room Hillyn had woken up in. “I was wondering if you and your brother would ever wake up, after you’d been washed up ashore like that. I’m Rana, in charge of the garrison on Bleakrock Island.”

“I’m Hillyn Wind-Drifter. I just wanted to pray a bit first before coming out. I’m grateful to Akatosh for our well-being.” Both of these statements were true. They just had nothing to do with one another. “Where did my brother go?”

“Downstairs, I believe,” Rana says. “You might want to get a bite to eat inside you as well. Once you’re done, could you bring your brother and come meet with me? You seem like capable sorts and I could use the help. And unless I miss my mark, you seem like you could use some coin after you lost everything in the sea but the rags you’re wearing, a couple of holy symbols, and that wicked-looking axe your brother was still clutching. He must really be fond of it if he wouldn’t let go of it even at the risk of drowning. I hope he knows how to use it. I fear there’s trouble afoot.”

Hillyn isn’t about to mention that she could probably take as much gold from the Shivering Isles vaults as she wants if she really needs money, and instead says, “We’ll help if we can. Dranney’s been training to fight, and I know a little magic. If you need anything electrocuted or healed, I might be able to manage that. Just don’t expect me to unravel the secrets of Aetherius anytime soon.”

Rana chuckles softly. “Electrocutions and healing would be more than welcome at this point.”

“Ah, before I go and eat, could you tell me what the date is?” Hillyn asks. “I’d like to know just how long we were out of action.”

“It’s the 20th of First Seed, year 582 of the Second Era,” Rana says. “You’ve been laying in bed for two days. I don’t know how long you were unconscious before you were brought in.”

Hillyn thanks her, frowning a bit as she turns to head downstairs. That meant she must have spent weeks in Coldharbour. Unfortunate… but it could definitely have been worse. It could have been months or years. It could have been an eternity. She likes to think that her cousin would have found a way to rescue them sooner or later, but how long? What would it have taken?

The downstairs of the building she’d woken up in isn’t much of an inn, but it does have a few tables, a warm fireplace, and a bar. Nobody but Dranney is in at the moment aside from the man organizing things behind the bar.

“Ah, the lass is up!” the man says. “Glad to see it. I thought for sure the next time I’d see you two would be in Sovngarde. Let me get you a hot bowl of stew. Don’t you worry about paying right now, neither. I know you got nothing.”

“Thank you,” Hillyn says. “I’m most grateful.”

She doesn’t bother to suggest aloud that she might just be able to summon a scamp to grab something from the Shivering Isles. That might not go over very well. On the other hand, it might be a good way to collect some equipment to replace the gear they’d lost when they were murdered.

Hillyn sits down across from Dranney. The man sets a bowl full of stew in front of her and takes Dranney’s empty one. The crackling fire is warm beside her, and she gets distracted taking a moment to savor the heat before taking a spoonful of the stew. Does she even need to eat anymore? A question for another time, perhaps. Right now, she’s just savoring how _normal_ everything is here. Not just from Coldharbour, but even when compared to Morrowind, never mind the Shivering Isles.

“Captain Rana thinks there may be trouble and is hoping we can help,” Hillyn says.

Dranney puts his tankard on the table and looks at Hillyn evenly, then lowers his voice, “ _That’s_ what you want to talk about? Not about what happened, what our plans are, what we’re going to tell people?”

“Not here,” Hillyn murmurs.

Dranney pauses, then gives a short nod. “Did she specify what?”

Hillyn shakes her head. “Just that we ought to talk to her when we’re ready.” Hillyn grabs Dranney’s hand as he starts to stand up. “ _Wait for me_ , please, dammit. This is going to involve both of us and there’s no point in us having to repeat everything to one another. Sit down and finish your ale.”

Dranney smirks and sits down again. “I’m just feeling a little antsy. Eager to get moving. Do something. Go somewhere. I feel like I’ve been cooped up forever.”

Hillyn wonders if he fared worse than her in Coldharbour without the protection of his amulet. She’ll have to keep an eye on him over the next few days and see how he’s doing. For that matter, maybe she should keep an eye on _herself_ somehow, too. She might not be the best judge of herself, but surely she’d notice if she were acting or feeling out of the ordinary. She does remember what ordinary is, at any rate.

Once Hillyn finishes eating, she thanks the man at the bar and heads back upstairs with Dranney. Rana glances up from what she’s reading as they approach.

“Ah, there you are,” Rana says. “How are you feeling?”

“Never been better,” Dranney says. “I hear you’ve got a quest for us?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a ‘quest’, but there’s something I could use some capable hands to help with. We spotted a ship nearby, but couldn’t identify it. It could be the start of an invasion. I sent out a boat to get a closer look, but they haven’t returned. If this _is_ an aggressive push, we’ll need to evacuate. This island isn’t a defensible location and we’ll need to warn the rest of the Pact to be on alert.”

“What can we do about it?” Hillyn asks. “We don’t have a ship.”

“I need someone who can travel the island and find our people,” Rana explains. “I’m tied down here, but you’re free to go where you like.”

Rana lists off some names and locations to search and ushers them out the door. A mine, a cave, a tomb… all probably full of monsters or bandits or something.

“This is exciting,” Hillyn says. “Finally, a real quest!”

“Hopefully it’ll go better than the last one…” Dranney says.

“Though maybe we should try to get a message to Siris and Moony,” Hillyn frowns thoughtfully.

“We can handle this, sis,” Dranney says. “We don’t need backup here.”

“You sure?” Hillyn asks. “We don’t really know what we might face out there.”

Dranney sighs. “If we run into something we can’t deal with, _then_ we can ask for help. If they turn up here and feel like killing bandits or skeletons or wildlife with us, I won’t yell at them to go away. But I’m not going to cry at them for help before even assessing whether we can handle this ourselves or not.”

“Agreed,” Hillyn says. “But if there’s really an invasion fleet heading for their location, it might be an inconvenience to whatever they’re doing at the moment.”

“Let’s confirm or deny it before getting anyone up in arms,” Dranney says. “If we start sending them panicked messages when there’s nothing, they’ll never take us seriously again.”

“Yeah, okay,” Hillyn says. “Where to start…”

* * *

Once out of the village, out in the wind on a snow-covered path, Hillyn deems it safe to speak freely.

“What _are_ we doing from here?” Hillyn wonders. “Aside from helping these people and trying to get our bearings again.”

“It _is_ a good enough place to start,” Dranney says. “I never thought I’d actually be glad to be in Skyrim again.” He pauses. “I _guess_ this place is in Skyrim. Or near Skyrim. Or at least seems very Nordy.”

“Your axe isn’t very Nordy,” Hillyn says. “I’m surprised you managed to keep it with you.”

“No kidding.” Dranney pulls the axe from his back and hefts it. “It has some good weight to it.”

“Daedric weapons might attract attention, though.”

Dranney snorts softly and rests the shaft against his shoulder. “Sure, but in the ‘man, I wish I had an axe like that’ sort of way. It’s not like you need to be a Daedra worshipper to get a Daedric weapon or anything. And you know what? If anyone asks me where I got it, I’m going to tell them _the truth_.”

“Seriously?”

Dranney grins widely. “Absolutely. Come on, these are Nords. If I tell them I was got it while escaping from Coldharbour, they’ll just take it as a boast or appreciate it for a good story.”

“I guess I see your point,” Hillyn says. “I’m just kind of paranoid. We did kind of piss off a Daedric Prince. I can only hope he was paying more attention to the old man than us or we’re going to be finding ourselves taking refuge in the Shivering Isles again and I’d really rather not be stuck there for the remainder of my existence unless I’m actually _dead_ -dead.”

“And not just mostly dead?” Dranney says with a smirk.

Hillyn still can’t help but worry about Lyris, trapped in that horrible place. That beautiful hair deserved to be under sunlight again.

Outside the village up ahead, a small building comes into view. Or a structure, at least. There’s no walls, just pillars holding aloft a roof above a large brazier, unlit at the moment.

“What is this?” Hillyn wonders. “A lamp?”

“Only a single lamp isn’t very useful,” Dranney says, approaching it. As he gets close, the amulet around his neck glows more brightly for a moment.

“That’s odd.”

Hillyn goes up to the brazier and touches it. Her amulet definitely feels like it’s reacting. Frowning slightly, she activates it, and the brazier lights up in faint blue flames. Dranney follows suit, and the flames brighten.

“It feels… Aedric,” Hillyn says. “This must be an Aedric shrine of some sort.”

As they’re gazing upon the shrine in awe, a woman suddenly runs up to them, squeaking like a rodent. Hillyn blinks, staring at her and wondering if she’s already run into people touched by the Madgod. She’d come to Nirn to get away from that!

“Um… are you alright?” Hillyn asks.

“Oh! I’m not a skeever anymore!”

Hillyn puts a hand to her forehead. “You were a skeever?”

“Yes! The name’s Molla. A wizard came by running around with a stick and turned me and my friends into skeevers.”

Okay, maybe this wizard is a Sheogorath worshipper rather than this woman. “I’m Hillyn, and my brother here is Dranney.”

“What in Oblivion kind of wizard runs around turning people into skeevers?” Dranney wonders.

“I don’t know!” Molla says. “He dropped the magic stick he used over there in front of the tent by that tree.” She points. “I couldn’t touch it. If you can find my friends, maybe you could use it to change them back.”

Hillyn goes over and retrieves the wand, and tries to detect if it’s one of the Madgod’s relics, but can’t really determine it conclusively.

“Molla, what is this shrine here?” Hillyn asks.

“Oh, it’s lit!” Molla exclaims. “And in such a pretty blue color, too, and not the usual orange. It’s a wayshrine. They’re built to honor the Eight Divines at sacred sites. How’d you make it blue?”

“We used our amulets here,” Hillyn says, gesturing to hers and quietly wondering at the mention of _Eight_ Divines rather than Nine like there’s supposed to be.

“We’ll see if we can find your friends,” Dranney says. “I’m sure it won’t be too hard to find a few skeevers on the whole island.” Particularly not with using a magic map. “How many of them were there? What were their names?”

“Three of them,” Molla says. “Their names are Faltha, Brend, and Runs-in-Wild. Thank you! I’d hate to think they’d be stuck as cheese-eating rodents forever. I’d better get back to the village where it’s safe. If you see that wizard, call him a milk-drinker for me!”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Hillyn says.

Once Molla is out of earshot, Dranney says quietly, “Well, sister of mine, it appears that we have been given a quest, and it is dumb.”

Hillyn examines the wand in her hand, but can’t make heads or skeever-tails of its enchantment, not that she really expected to. “This is probably one of this things our dear cousin would be raging about being ‘needlessly silly’.” She shoves the wand into her pack. “Well, I’ll just make a note to not immediately electrocute any skeevers we spot without checking first, and look at the map just as often as I usually do to see if any of those names are nearby.”

“So, does this mean we can turn things into skeevers now if we want to?” Dranney wonders.

“What, you want me to test it on you?”

“No, no.” Dranney holds up his hands. “I’m just speaking in hypotheticals here.”

“Hypothetically, I can’t tell of this thing has a limited number of uses, or needs to be recharged, or whatever. We can play with it after we’re sure nobody else is going to get stuck as a skeever.”

* * *

Up ahead, a name appears on the map as _Hoknir_. The twins find a man sitting in front of a tent by a campfire, clutching his leg.

“Are you alright?” Hillyn asks, going up to him.

Hoknir groans. “I’ve been hunting a giant bat, a monstrous thing! I call it Deathclaw. I finally tracked it down but it ate my foot!”

Hillyn kneels down next to him. “Here, let me see. I’m not nearly good enough at healing magic to regrow limbs, but I can stop the bleeding and heal over the stump at least.”

“Where was this bat?” Dranney asks, pulling out his Daedric axe.

“Down that path,” Hoknir says, gesturing vaguely before pulling off his boot for Hillyn to look at. “I dropped some things while fleeing the site. You can probably follow my lost belongings back to its lair. Be careful. That creature is dangerous. I’m sure you’ll make short work of it with that fine axe of yours, though.”

“Stay and look after him, sis,” Dranney says. “I’ll take care of this bat.”

Hillyn nods and turns to focus on tending the man’s injury. She doesn’t really have a lot of field experience in healing, but it’s one thing she’d been sure to learn. She doesn’t find much sense in being able to call down a raging storm upon something if she can’t even heal a small cut.

While she’s working on that, out of the corner of her eye she spots Dranney approach from the other side of the tent, from the direction of the wayshrine. Wearing nothing but an amulet of Akatosh.

“Dranney?” Hillyn says. “What in Oblivion are you doing?”

“Uh…” Dranney looks sidelong at Hoknir. “The… uh… giant bat ate my clothes.”

Hillyn stares at him. “What.”

“Hoknir, you wouldn’t happen to have any spare trousers around, would you?”

Hoknir looks at him incredulously. “How did Deathclaw eat your clothes if you haven’t a mark on you? Or were you just off taking a bath in a stream?”

Dranney doesn’t answer. “Hillyn, is he stable for the moment?”

“Yeah, he’s not going to bleed out now,” Hillyn says.

“Okay, great. Can you come with me? I could use some help with that giant bat.”

Hillyn gives a broad shrug toward Hoknir, then goes to follow her nude brother away from the camp. “What really happened?” she asks quietly once they’re out of earshot.

“I died,” Dranney says. “Deathclaw was too much for me. Tore me right apart. Hurt like hell, for a moment, at least, but only a moment. I found myself lying naked in the snow next to the wayshrine a moment later.”

Hillyn blinks at that. “Okay. Well then. I guess being technically dead apparently means we can’t die again.”

“Why the wayshrine, though?” Dranney asks. “When Daedra die, they return to Oblivion. Do you suppose it had something to do with our amulets?”

Hillyn shakes her head. “The Marauders always said they reappears in the Shivering Isles when they die. That happened whether they were wearing these amulets or not, so far as I know. No, maybe it had something to do with the Skyshards we absorbed. They were supposed to attune us to Nirn, the Prophet said. The Marauders haven’t been attuned to Nirn. They’re just Daedra.”

“I’m really confused now,” Dranney says. “But I’m not going to complain about being still alive when I should have been dead twice over now. I will, however, complain about being naked. Hopefully my trousers are still intact. Ah, here’s the spot.”

There’s no sign of an overly large bat at the moment, having likely gone back inside the nearby cave, but the area is strewn with bones and blood. In the middle of it sits a pack, a Daedric battle axe, and a pile of clothes. Hillyn takes a moment to summon her scamp again.

“You know, I’m kind of glad I didn’t leave a corpse,” Dranney says, picking up the trousers to examine them. “That would have been extra creepy. Ugh. The trousers are salvageable but the shirt is shredded. Some actual armor would have helped, I suppose.” He pulls the trousers on and picks up his pack and axe.

Movement in the cave catches Hillyn’s eye. “I think it’s coming back.”

She brings lightning to hand, prepared to electrocute the monstrous bat. It swoops in faster than she imagined it could move, knocking her aside and tearing the strap of her pack, sending her supplies scattering across the ground. She gets off a lightning bolt at it, but it shrugs it off and comes at her again.

The bat freezes in midair for a moment. Its wings meld with its body as it shrinks down. Where the giant bat was, a skeever plops to the ground, letting out a much smaller scream.

Dranney lowers the skeever wand. “Hey, I guess this thing actually works.” He grabs his axe and cleaves the much-smaller Deathclaw in two while it’s trying to bite Hillyn.

“Thanks.” Hillyn starts gathering up her meager supplies. They’d been given to her out of pity, after all. Thankfully the potion bottles are unbroken and the flask didn’t spill, but she’ll need to mend her pack. “How are we going to convince Hoknir that we actually killed Deathclaw and not some random skeever, though?”

Dranney waves the wand at the dead skeever. It shifts… into a mangled mass of flesh and bones that resembles neither a skeever nor a bat. “Ew. Okay, note to self, never do that again. How about we just tell him we killed Deathclaw and don’t mention the skeever bit? It’s not like he’s going to hobble down here and check.”

“Yeah, let’s—let’s do that.”

Dranney pulls on his shredded shirt. It’s a mess, but some blood and dirt cling to it and the rips in it at least _look_ like something with massive claws tore it apart.

They return to Hoknir’s tent. Dranney makes a show of cleaning the blood off of his axe once Hoknir is looking at them.

“We did it!” Dranney says. “We got Deathclaw good.”

“And found your trousers,” Hoknir says with a smirk. “At least you’ve got your sister to keep you in line, lad. Did you bring back and trophies from your kill?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dranney says. “Hillyn’s spells made it kind of… splodey.”

Hoknir snorts softly. “Well, at least it’s dead. I owe you a share of the bounty for that. Now I just need to get myself back to the village. Guess I’ll need to come back for my gear later.”

“Nonsense,” Dranney says. “I’ll carry it for you.”

“Ah, you do an old hunter a kindness.”

Dranney gathers up his belongings, and Hillyn checks his stump again to make sure it’s as healed as it’s going to get at the moment. She lets him lean on her on the way back to allow him to keep some of his weight off of his stump.

* * *

“Hoknir!” calls out a woman’s voice as they come into the village. “Hoknir, what happened?”

As they guide Hoknir to somewhere he can take a seat and rest, Dranney launches into a greatly embellished and mostly fictional account of their tense battle with the giant bat. It’s unclear how much of it the suitably-impressed small audience actually believes.

While Dranney goes to get something to drink, Hillyn locates a spot where she can do some uninterrupted prayer.

{Hi, Lexen. It’s me, Hillyn.}

{Hey, Hillyn. How are you doing?}

{Well, something odd just happened,} Hillyn explains. {First we found this wayshrine, apparently an Aedric shrine, outside the village here. And then Dranney died to something stupid. He’s okay, don’t worry. He respawned at the wayshrine naked. I don’t know why he respawned at the wayshrine.}

{Interesting. Well, it’s good to know that you didn’t respawn in Coldharbour, which was where it would have been most likely, but the _wayshrine_? I’ll need to send someone to investigate this. Are there many of these wayshrines?}

{I’m told they’re often built at sacred sites, whether that’s in the wilderness or near towns or wherever I’m not sure,} Hillyn replies. {This one was just outside the village. If there was one here at this little smudge on the map, they’ve got to be all over the place.}

{Definitely something to look into. I’ll make sure you’ve got equipment available that will stay with you when you die for whenever you get back here.}

{Thanks.}

* * *

Hillyn hopes that Rana’s fear of invasion isn’t particularly urgent, because at this rate, it’s going to take her and Dranney days to scour the whole tiny island. There’s a Nord woman in the village by the name of Tillrani who seems frustrated at Rana’s lack of action.

“We were supposed to set up a signal light at the first sign of trouble,” Tillrani grumbles. “But Rana wants to be sure. And she sent our whole garrison out to investigate and they haven’t come back!”

“Why haven’t you lit the signal yet?” Dranney asks.

“She hasn’t given the order.”

“What’s stopping you from doing it yourself?” Dranney wonders.

“Rana is in charge here, unfortunately,” Tillrani says.

“Has she told you _not_ to do it?”

Tillrani nods with a sigh. “She wouldn’t hear of it. She thinks it’s premature.”

“Do you have any wizards on the island?” Hillyn asks.

Tillrani raises an eyebrow. “Aside from you? I don’t think so. Why?”

“Some wizard has been running around turning people into skeevers,” Dranney says. “I know, sounds stupid. Some random person has obviously gotten onto this island. I don’t think panicking over one ship without even seeing its type or colors is really warranted. Surely people come and go all the time. Including, apparently, insane wizards. Who probably don’t have anything whatsoever to do with any invasions and are just insane.”

“It’s good to be cautious, though,” Hillyn argues.

“And it’s not good to send off false alarms every time you spot a sail somewhere that it shouldn’t be odd to see ships going by,” Dranney says.

“Ugh, I don’t need this argument to start up _again_ with someone new,” Tillrani grumbles.

“Sorry,” Dranney says.

Hillyn grabs his arm. “Let’s see if we can find that mine Rana asked us to check out.”

* * *

The twins make a quick detour to find a dog and rescue a man who had washed up ashore, incidentally running across one of the people who had been transformed into skeevers along the way. Upon seeing that this particular dot on the map has the name _Brend_ over it, Dranney waves the wand and the skeever abruptly becomes a very grateful Nord man.

“I wonder what would happen if this were used on something that’s already a skeever to begin with,” Dranney muses as he puts the wand away.

Once the other man has been rescued, they move on and locate the mine. Turns out the mine is full of bandits. Hillyn spots Rana’s sergeant, a dark elf woman named Seyne.

“Good to see a friendly face,” the Dunmer says as they approach. “I’m Sergeant Seyne.”

“Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter,” Hillyn says.

“Captain Rana sent us,” Dranney adds. “We’re you’re backup, I think.”

Seyne gives Dranney a bandit outfit to help him blend in so that he can sneak into their camp and find out what they’re up to. Dranney is grateful for clothes that aren’t full of holes, at any rate.

“They’re bandits,” Hillyn mumbles. “Why do they wear _uniforms_?”

“Apparently so they know which other bandits are their sort of bandits,” Dranney says with a shrug. “I’ll see if I can find a set for you.”

“That axe is going to stand out a bit, too,” Seyne says. “Might want to leave it with us.”

Dranney gives a put-out sigh. “Aw, come on. Fiiiine.”

He hands Hillyn the axe and heads into the camp. It’s heavy enough that she almost drops it and has to lean it against the ground. A few minutes later, Dranney returns with an armload of laundry.

“Turns out nobody questions you when you volunteer to do laundry,” Dranney says. “Would you two ladies care to join me?”

“I’d best keep watch,” Seyne says. “I think they might notice a Dunmer.”

“You mean to tell me being a bandit isn’t an equal opportunity occupation?” Dranney says.

“It’s not much of subterfuge if we’re all going in there,” Seyne says. “You two have a much better chance of not being noticed as out of the ordinary than I do.”

“Let’s just do this, dear brother,” Hillyn says, picking out some clothes that might fit her. “It’s not like we need to kill them all.”

“Did you really have to say that?” Dranney says.

* * *

This time, Hillyn’s the one making a sudden trip back to the wayshrine. No, not from the bandits. The bandits are fine. As it turns out, whoever had previously run the mine had been cultists of Vaermina, Daedric Prince of Nightmares, and the mine is full of scamps.

The twins, of course, don’t really think much of the scamps. They’d killed dozens of them that had been laid out for them in practice caves. Turns out those scamps had been ordered not to actually hurt them. These scamps have no such orders and are quite eager to attempt to set them on fire. And then succeed at setting them on fire.

Hillyn decides she does not enjoy being set on fire.

Waking up naked in the snow with just an amulet and a map isn’t very fun either, but at least her Nord blood keeps the cold at bay. And really, the cold of Skyrim is positively pleasant compared to Coldharbour.

On the up side, the spot where Sergeant Seyne was keeping watch over the mine isn’t very far from the wayshrine, and there’s probably still a pile of laundry there. Now to just figure out how to explain this…

“Hillyn?” Seyne says in alarm, quickly tossing her some clothes. “What happened to you?”

“Don’t ask,” Hillyn mutters as she gets dressed again. “My brother should be along shortly. We found a portal to Oblivion in the mine and we were trying to shut it down.”

“And this was how you wound up naked back by the wayshrine,” Seyne says flatly.

“Yes. And very glad to be on Nirn and not in Oblivion, honestly.”

Dranney emerges from the bandit camp momentarily, carrying the remnants of Hillyn’s pack, now charred on top of being torn. “You dropped this.” He passes a note to Seyne. “You might want to take a look at this.”

“What’s this?” Seyne looks it over. “The bandits cut a deal with the Daggerfall Covenant and are looking for an artifact?”

“And of course left their incriminating evidence laying around in plain sight,” Dranney says. “Then again, seeing as they were already bandits to begin with, they weren’t looking legitimate in anything they were doing in the first place.”

“This has to be a distraction,” Seyne says, folding the note and putting it away.

“Distraction?” Dranney snorts. “It _sounds_ like they’re looking for an artifact. There are easier ways to cause distractions than to hire bandits to hunt for Daedric artifacts in cultist lairs.”

“What was the artifact, anyway?” Seyne wonders.

“A sigil stone,” Dranney says. “It’s okay. I smashed the thing. The gate’s been shut down and those bandits are going to be disappointed should they manage to get in there before somebody shoos them away from here.”

Seyne nods. “Yes, it would likely take more than the three of us to be able handle all of them, and we’ve got other priorities right now. I’m going to get this information back to Captain Rana.”

“We’ll go with you,” Hillyn says, gathering up the extra clothes into her pack. “Safety in numbers.”

* * *

Hillyn is tired. She’s more tired mentally than physically, however. She’s not in the least bit tired physically. Hillyn has to hand it to Dranney for his stamina and the fact that he doesn’t even seen winded or discouraged yet.

“It’s getting late,” Hillyn murmurs. “We should get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” Dranney says.

Hillyn sighs. “We’re not going out gallivanting about the island all night.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, somebody’s going to _notice_ that we apparently didn’t sleep,” Hillyn says.

“But we’d be able to get more done,” Dranney argues. “I’m sure they wouldn’t be able to complain about us helping their people faster. We’ve been doing a great job so far!”

“We’ve been getting killed so far,” Hillyn points out. “You know, I offered to escort Sergeant Seyne back here in hopes that we could get a little rest, not that we could waste time walking back and forth across the island.”

“Come on, it’s not that far.”

* * *

“Spiders,” mutters Dranney. “Why did it have to be spiders.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come out here,” Hillyn points out.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

With three Fighters Guild members rescued from giant spiders, and one Dunmer woman being restored from skeever form, the twins make their way to the ice cave at the north end of the island, called Orkey’s Hollow.

In the fading daylight, the Nord woman outside seems suspicious at their approach. “Tell me you haven’t come to ‘prove your courage’ as well.”

“I have spent the day fighting giant bats, giant spiders, and a cave full of scamps,” Dranney says dryly. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“Captain Rana sent us,” Hillyn says. “She was concerned about you.”

“Well, at least someone is. I’m Rolunda. My brother Eiman went into this cave on a dare after drinking too much. That was this morning. He hasn’t been out and I’m worried something has happened to him. I was just about to head inside to try to find him myself when you two showed up.”

Hillyn pulls out her map and looks it over, and murmurs. “The cave is full of bears, but Eiman is still in there, alive. Doesn’t appear to be moving. Either stuck or decided to take a nap.”

Rolunda hears her and looks over her shoulder. “A magic map? Very impressive! Oh, that is good to know. Would you be willing to go in there and drag out my brother by the ear?”

“Of course,” Hillyn says. “Let’s go, Dranney.”

Skirting around the bears, they make their way over to Eiman’s dot on the map, only to find him encased in ice.

“I think we’re not going to be able to get a hold of his ears,” Dranney says. “I don’t suppose you know any fire magic capable of melting all this?”

Hillyn shakes her head. “I’m better with lightning. I can light a candle or a campfire, sure. But this much ice, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to melt it all without hurting him even if I tried.”

A voice abruptly echoes through the cave. “Is this someone you know? Ooh! Let’s play a game! Can you guess who I am? I might just let you go if you win!”

Dranney sighs. “Oh, great. A madman.”

Hillyn summons up a scamp and instructs it, “If any of these bears attack, defend us. Otherwise, keep quiet. We’re going to try to avoid them.”

The scamp nods eagerly and crouches down to creep along with them.

A small chamber off to the side contains a wide variety of junk, to which the mysterious voice proclaims to have been his friends that he apparently transformed into inanimate objects. A candlestick, a vase, a jug…

“Did we find the mad wizard who was turning people into skeevers?” Dranney wonders quietly.

“Well, we haven’t run into any other mad wizards,” Hillyn replies. “It would seem to follow.”

Down the next tunnel, they fail to evade a bear and catch its attention. Dranney charges at it with his battle axe along with the scamp, while Hillyn provides support with spells. Her healing doesn’t come fast enough, however, as Dranney takes a heavy blow and falls to the ground. His body dissolves, leaving her to try to finish off the bear by herself with the hapless scamp trying to claw at it. Fortunately, a few more lightning strikes and it falls.

Hillyn sighs and tries to pick up his axe, wishing she’d spent a bit more time doing physical exercises, before ultimately deciding to just wait for him to get back. The cave isn’t particularly large and there’s nothing hostile in between her current location and its entrance. She looks at the dead bear and wishes she knew how to skin animals. It seems like a waste to just leave the meat and fur to rot. Well, maybe not rot as this frozen cave will probably preserve it pretty well. Maybe she can send someone back here to take care of it later.

Dranney returns naked, and she tosses him another spare shirt from her pack.

“What was your excuse for showing up naked this time?” Hillyn asks.

“That a crazy mage teleported me outside without my clothes,” Dranney says. “At least the local Nords don’t really know what is plausible for magic to do. We really need to get some actual armor, though.”

“Magic armor that repairs itself and stays with us when we die,” Hillyn amends. “We’ll see about it once we get back to the Shivering Isles.”

“Let’s just try to get through this island first,” Dranney says.

“It’s becoming abundantly clear just how unprepared we were.”

Dranney nods reluctantly and takes up his axe again once he’s finished getting dressed. “Tell me there aren’t anymore bears ahead.”

Hillyn takes another look at the map. “Nope, but there _is_ someone named Mathalas.”

“I’m guessing that’s our mage,” Dranney says, frowning at the map. “Or another transformed person. Okay, that’s creepy. Now that we’re close enough for the names to pop up… that room full of junk is apparently actually full of people.”

“Eeeeyeah,” Hillyn makes a face. “Okay. Let’s go have a chat with this Mathalas.”

There is indeed a person standing there, a wood elf of all things for that matter. Standing in front of a door covered in ice, with his hands on his hips and looking at them with wild eyes.

“Hello, hello, little squirrels,” says the Bosmer.

“So, I take it you’re the one we’ve been talking to,” Dranney says. “You gonna let Eiman go, or turn him into a toilet?”

“A… what now?” the Bosmer asks.

“See?” He looks at Hillyn. “This. _This_ is the problem with Tamriel these days.”

“At least we apparently don’t need to worry about that anymore,” Hillyn says.

“Yeah,” Dranney agrees. “Honestly, dying is the best thing that ever happened to us if it means we don’t need to try to figure out which of Morrowind’s native flora is safe to wipe with.”

“Well, I’m sure if we asked our cousin, he would have been happy to provide a inflatable extradimensional porta-potty or something.”

“And endless bogrolls?” Dranney adds.

The mad elf appears to be unable to decide how he should react to these visitors that are clearly just as mad as him. Finally he clears his throat and decides to go back to the original question. “Can you guess who I am?”

“Sure,” Dranney says. “Your name is Mathalas. You’re a Bosmer, from I-don’t-actually-care-where, a superb mage of the school of Alteration, and a worshipper of Sheogorath.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m mad?”

Dranney shrugs. “Like knows like.”

“But I’m not a squirrel!” Mathalas protests.

“Maybe not,” Dranney says. “But if you don’t do what I say, you’ll be a skeever.” He brandishes the skeever wand menacingly.

“Oh my, you found my stick!” Mathalas says. “Alright, you win. You can have Eiman. But I want my stick back!” He reaches for it.

Dranney pulls it away. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. We played your game. We know who you are. Tell you what, though. We’ll give your stick back if you do something for us.”

“And just what might that be, greedy squirrel?” Mathalas asks.

“Do you have a shrine to Sheogorath?” Dranney asks.

“No,” Mathalas says. “I don’t have enough cheese. The skeevers at it all.”

“That’s fine,” Dranney says. “Sheogorath is about far more than just cheese. Build a shrine to the Prince of Madness. One with yarn and shiny things. Make a fine statue of him here in this cave. I’m sure your friends wouldn’t mind the company, either.”

“If I do that, you’ll give me my stick back?”

“Absolutely,” Dranney says.

“Your souls are missing,” Mathalas says. “Want mine? It’s black and gooey.”

“I’m sure Sheogorath does,” Hillyn says. “We’re fine though.”

“Does Sheogorath have your souls?” Mathalas asks.

“I wish he did,” Hillyn says.

“You might want to get them back, then,” Mathalas says. “Get them where they belong. Before Daedrats gnaw on them.”

“Daedric… rats?” Hillyn wonders.

Mathalas nods. “They’ll gnaw off your toes if you’re not careful. Your soul-toes.”

“Will you release Eiman now?” Dranney asks.

“Yes, of course,” Mathalas says. “Go on, take him out of here. He’s a terrible squirrel and he hurts my teeth.”

* * *

The last of the transformed skeevers, Runs-in-Wild, is located near Orkey’s Hollow. Dranney waves the wand at him, but nothing happens.

“I think the wand is out of charges,” Hillyn says.

“Dammit,” Dranney mutters. “So turns out I was bluffing about turning the mad elf into a skeever. Sorry, Runs-in-Wild, we’ll need to come back for you.”

“We can recharge it,” Hillyn says.

“Well, _I_ certainly didn’t think to bring any soul gems,” Dranney says. “We’ll need to head back to the village and see if we can buy one.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Hillyn points out.

“Do you want to explain that to Runs-in-Wild here?”

The skeever looks at the two of them, unaggressive but without any clear sign of comprehension. If it weren’t for the map showing a name, Hillyn might have thought it to simply be an unusually docile skeever.

“We’ll have to take him with us,” Hillyn says.

Dranney transfers the contents of his pack into Hillyn’s and gathers up the skeever into his own. The large rodent seems content enough to curl up inside.

Along the way to the old crypt that Captain Rana had asked them to check out, they run across another bandit camp. As they’re still wearing the laundry stolen from Hozzin’s Folly, the bandits greet them as their own without giving them a second glance. This allows them to readily free a captive while they’re not looking, and also ‘accidentally’ start a fire in their supplies before slipping away.

“Why in Oblivion do these clothes make people think we’re bandits?” Dranney mutters. “There’s nothing even special about them.”

“Well, we also did just kind of stroll in like we owned the place,” Hillyn says. “The Marauders always told us that the best way to sneak into someplace is to act like you belong there.”

“Which works even better than invisibility because doors,” Dranney adds with a chuckle. “Okay. I think I spot the tomb ahead, but it’s hard to make out in the moonlight.”

“I see a torch, and stairs, and I think something is moving,” Hillyn murmurs. “Wait, is that a camp?”

They almost stumble over a man curled up on a blanket. Hillyn conjures a small light and leans down to examine him. He’s not dressed like one of the bandits, and very convenient that the bandits are all dressed the same for some reason. He’s also injured, although not actively bleeding. Hillyn decides to take the chance of rousing him.

“Wha?” the man murmurs, looking up at them. “Who are you?”

“Captain Rana sent us,” Hillyn says. “We’re Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter. Who are _you_?”

“Name’s Darj. Hunter from Bleakrock Village. Got into a bit of a nasty scrape with the skeletons walking about in the barrow up there.”

Hillyn crouches down, bringing healing magic to her hands. “Let’s see if I can get you patched up and you can tell us what you’ve seen.”

As Hillyn works restoration magic on him, Darj tells them about the undead infestation and gives them a bag of incense for summoning the spirit of the dragon priest who is supposed to protect the crypt.

“Can you watch this while we’re doing that?” Dranney asks, pulling off his squirming pack and setting it next to Darj.

“Why do you have a skeever in a pack?” Darj wonders.

“It’s Runs-in-Wild,” Dranney says. “Some crazy mage turned him into a skeever. Thankfully we’ve got a way to fix him once we get back to the village. Unless you’ve got any soul gems on you. Dumb skeever wand is out of charges.”

“Ach, blasted mages,” Darj says. “I’ll make sure Runs-in-Wild comes to no harm.”

At the behest of the tired hunter, they summon a rude dead priest, who instructs them on how to get inside the barrow and charges them with killing the necromancer who has desecrated the shrine.

“So, we need to put these three runestones on the pedestals to open the door?” Dranney confirms.

“Yes,” the spirit says.

“Does… it reset automatically or are we supposed to put them back when we’re done?” Dranney asks. “I mean, obviously this necromancer got in somehow but the door is locked now.”

The dragon priest spirit sighs and gives Dranney the look of answering a dumb question from a small child. “Yes, it resets. Now go, maggots. Cleanse my shrine!”

“Yes, sir, right away,” Dranney says.

* * *

“I hate undead from now on,” Dranney says.

“It wasn’t too bad,” Hillyn says. “At least they came apart easily enough.”

“Yeah, but the way they _looked_ at us was creepy.”

“Is it done?” Darj asks. “Do the dead rest again?”

Hillyn nods. “There was a necromancer who, according to this note here, was under contract from the Daggerfall Covenant.”

“The Covenant!” Darj exclaims. “Here?”

“We found evidence of them poking about in other parts of the island, too,” Hillyn says. “I don’t know what they’re up to. Captain Rana thinks they might attack the island, but it doesn’t sound like that’s the only reason they’re here. They’re looking for something.”

“We need to get back and warn the village,” Darj says. “We need to prepare to evacuate!”

“How are you doing?” Hillyn asks. “Your injuries haven’t opened up again?”

“I’m good to walk, certainly,” Darj says. “Let’s get moving.”

They head back to the village and arrive back there well before dawn. Captain Rana looks only a slight bit annoyed at being woken up.

“Did you find our people?” Rana asks. “Did you learn anything?”

“The Covenant _has_ been poking around the island,” Hillyn says. “And it doesn’t sound like they’re up to anything good at all.”

“We need to evacuate,” Darj says.

“If we start preparing now, we should be able to head out in the morning,” Rana says. “We’d already started getting things ready when Sergeant Seyne reported back, but I think you’ve found everyone that was missing now.”

“We might be able to evade them if we slip out by cover of night,” Hillyn says. “They probably won’t be expecting that.”

“It would not be easy to navigate by darkness, though,” Rana says.

“My magic map will be able to show where we’re going no matter how dark it is,” Hillyn says, showing it to her.

“Huh, yes, I believe it would!” Rana says. “Alright, let’s start preparations, posthaste.”

“So are we heading to Windhelm?” Hillyn asks.

“The Covenant fleet would probably intercept us if we tried to head straight there,” Rana says.

“Gnisis?” Hillyn asks. “That’s the opposite direction.”

“Vvardenfell doesn’t technically fall under Ebonheart Pact territory,” Rana says. “It’s administered directly by the Tribunal Temple. No, we’re heading to a small town on the coast called Dhalmora, in the Bal Foyen region of Morrowind. Hopefully they won’t follow us there.”

“And you don’t think the Covenant is likely to attack Gnisis?” Hillyn asks.

“They’re not going to risk the wrath of Vivec just to attack a place that isn’t at war with them,” Rana says.

“How much do you want to count on that?” Hillyn wonders.

“If they _did_ attack Gnisis, or any of the other towns on the Vvardenfell coast, all it would do is bring in an area that has so far stayed neutral to attack them,” Rana says. “They won’t risk it.”

“We should tell them anyway,” Hillyn says.

“We can’t afford to waste time to stop there,” Rana says.

Hillyn sighs. “Hopefully they’re paying attention and the Covenant is more interested in invading the mainland.”

While Darj and Rana start rousing people, Hillyn and Dranney head for the shops to find a soul gem that can turn a sleepy skeever back into an Argonian, also rousing the various shopkeepers and craftspeople along the way and informing them of the evacuation. They locate Saerdor, the Nord man who sells soul gems and various mystical paraphernalia.

“Could we buy a soul gem?” Dranney asks, putting the pack down on the floor. “I need to recharge this wand so I can undo the stupid spell that crazy mage cast on this poor guy.”

“Bah, take one,” Saerdor says, grabbing one and shoving it in his hands. “I’m not going to be able to take my full stock with me anyway. They’re cheap and better it be used to help someone than for the Covenant to get them all.”

Dranney passes the soul gem and wand off to Hillyn. “Here, I forget how to do this.”

Hillyn snorts and charges up the wand. “What, you didn’t bother trying to remember because you thought I’d just do it for you every time?” She waves the wand at the skeever, who promptly transforms into a very disoriented Argonian.

“What… what happened?” asks Runs-in-Wild.

“Crazy mage turned you and your friends into skeevers,” Hillyn says.

“I erect the spine of gratitude,” Runs-in-Wild says. “I must say I prefer to have scales than fur.” He looks about. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone rushing about?”

“The Covenant has been sighted on the island,” Hillyn says. “We’re evacuating.”

“Was that crazy mage with the Covenant?” Runs-in-Wild asks.

“No, he was a completely unrelated crazy mage with a penchant for transforming people annoyingly,” Hillyn says. “You should be glad you didn’t wind up being a jug, at least.”

“ _We_ should be glad we didn’t wind up as tableware,” Dranney says.

The evacuation proceeds apace. Captain Rana leads them through a tomb to a small bay where smugglers dock. Hillyn doesn’t bother to question why she knows that there will be currently smugglers there and that she wasn’t doing anything about them. The smugglers agree to help after Rana promises them some impressive monetary compensation by the Ebonheart Pact, and only agree to actually sail out at night once they see Hillyn’s map. In darkness and silence, in the dead of the night, the entire population of Bleakrock Village slips away into the Inner Sea.


	6. Bal Foyen

The boat ride isn’t as bad as Hillyn feared, but she’s still glad to be on dry land again.

Knowing that Bal Foyen was in Morrowind, she had been expecting to see dark elven architecture again, but she’s in for a surprise when she sees buildings that seem to be made of piled up lumps of mud occupied by Argonians. From what she’s told, the land was given to the Argonians upon their release from slavery at the formation of the Ebonheart Pact. She’s not sure how generous that makes the dark elves sound, considering to all accounts, Bal Foyen was already a shithole.

Everyone is immediately clamoring for them to help, but the twins let them by for the moment and explore the town and immediate area. They locate another wayshrine a short ways south of the town of Dhalmora and light it up with their amulets again.

“Well, I suppose this will be useful the next time we die stupidly to something near here,” Dranney says. “It would be inconvenient to wind up back in Bleakrock Island. At least, I _hope_ that’s how this works.”

“I wonder if we can use them for anything else,” Hillyn muses, unrolling her map. “And it would be awfully useful if this map could be modified to display them, too.”

“We’ll need to ask our cousin once we get home,” Dranney says. “How _are_ we going to get home?”

“Find one of his shrines, or build one, I guess,” Hillyn says. “I’m not sure.”

“Do you suppose the crazy elf in Orkey’s Hollow has gotten a shrine up already?” Dranney asks.

Hillyn shrugs. “I know we could just cross Stonefalls to get to one we _know_ is there, at least.”

“You’ll forgive me that I don’t feel like walking across Stonefalls again right now if I can possibly help it.”

Hillyn closes her eyes and prays. {Hey, Lexen? We’ve left Bleakrock Isle and have found another wayshrine in Bal Foyen that we’re currently at. Is there… some way we can get back to the Shivering Isles from here without walking halfway across Morrowind?}

{Ah, yes, let me see. Huh, a shrine appeared on Bleakrock Isle? Did you do something there?}

{Oh, right, we told this crazy elf to build a shrine to you or we wouldn’t give back his stupid wand that turns things into skeevers,} Hillyn explains. {I suppose that’s less immediately useful if we can’t get _back_ to Bleakrock quite so readily. And we still didn’t give his wand back yet.}

{I’m getting some very interesting readings from that wayshrine you’re standing near. Would you be willing to try a little experiment for me here? These feel an awful lot like the temple markers for the various intervention spells, but they’re a lot stronger.}

{You think they might be a transportation network?} Hillyn wonders.

{They are _absolutely_ a transportation network. Oh, this is marvelous.}

{Do you know how I might be able to activate it, then?} Hillyn asks.

{Nope!} comes an overly-cheerful reply. {So we’re going to have to do a little bit of experimentation here. It might even be easier than a Recall spell. Do you remember how to cast a Recall spell?}

{Well… no,} Hillyn replies sheepishly. {I was having trouble with that one. It took me long enough to learn the spells I know.}

{Yeah, it’s fine. Alright. I want you to touch the shrine and focus.}

Hillyn obediently puts a hand on one of the pillars holding up the small roof. {Focus on what?}

{The shrine. Try to see if you can get a sense of anything else in the network. Can you detect any other shrines?}

{No,} Hillyn replies, frowning. {Lexen, I have no idea what I’m doing.}

A chuckle echoes in her mind. {Let me tell you a secret, my dear Hillyn. _I_ have no idea what I’m doing half the time. I’d swear that my grand strategy half the time is to just fake it until reality submits.}

{That’s easy for you to say,} Hillyn protests. {You’re a god!}

{When I first arrived in this universe — I mean, on Nirn, not this particular time frame — I knew less than you do right now. None of my spells worked anymore, because they were spells learned in another universe. I had to relearn _everything_ , and had nothing but the inability to properly die like a normal person and the unwillingness to ever give up.}

{My own current inability to die is probably not quite as _resilient_ as yours, but I suppose there’s a point to that,} Hillyn replies.

“What are you doing?” Dranney asks.

“Trying something,” Hillyn says.

She imagines, in her mind’s eye, a spiderweb of leylines encompassing the world with wayshrines standing out like bright dots. She can’t actually see or sense any of it, but it feels like a reasonable visualization to her.

“You know, it might not actually be that hard to teleport between wayshrines,” she muses aloud. “We already kind of do that when we die.”

Dranney comes up and puts his hand on another of the shrine’s pillars. “I have no idea what you might be sensing here.”

Hillyn chuckles. “Absolutely nothing. But think about it. If someone built these ancient shrines to be used for teleportation, they wouldn’t have made it hard to use them, even without specific training, right?”

“I couldn’t tell you what the long-forgotten ancients might have been thinking of,” Dranney says. “Molla certainly didn’t seem to know anything, but the Nords on that island didn’t know a damned thing about magic in general, so that doesn’t mean much.”

Hillyn holds in mind a clear visualization of the wayshrine on Bleakrock Isle, remembering the feeling of it when they lit the flames. “It might just be a matter of focusing on where you want to go… and letting go.”

Taking a deep breath more in her soul than in her body, Hillyn releases a grip she didn’t really realize she was holding upon the world. A wash of blue-white fills her vision for a moment, and when it clears, she finds herself standing in the snow by the wayshrine on Bleakrock Isle.

{It worked!} Hillyn exclaims. {I did it! I figured it out!} She gives a quick explanation of what she did.

{Well done! I am _so proud of you_ right now!}

Dranney materializes beside her in a burst of blue flames. “Oh, thank Akatosh I’m not naked this time.”

“You’re not thanking Sheogorath?” Hillyn says with a smirk.

“Oh, hell no, he’d probably think it was funny,” Dranney says.

“Let’s get inside Orkey’s Hollow before any Covenant troops spot us,” Hillyn says, turning toward the ice cave.

“If it’s that easy, why don’t people just use wayshrines to invade places?” Dranney wonders.

“That’s an excellent question and one I’m sure we will figure out the answer to at some point in the immediate future,” Hillyn says, dragging him off. “And keep your voice down. I saw movement in the other direction.”

They get inside the ice cave and, thankfully, avoid being intercepted by any bears along the way. Back in the room with the creepy transformed people, the mad elf has set up a lovely shrine to Sheogorath. Admittedly, he took a bit of creative license in depicting Sheogorath as a Bosmer in a jester’s outfit, but whatever. Transfiguring rock into a statue has to be a lot quicker and easier than carving it with a hammer and chisel.

The mad elf in question is currently working behind the shrine on what appears to be a doorway. Mathalas looks up as they approach, booted feet crunching against some loose ice scattered across the floor.

“Ah! You’re back. Did the greedy squirrels bring my stick?”

“Yes,” Dranney says with a chuckle, pulling it out of his pack and handing it to him. “Here it is. I even recharged it for you.”

“ _I_ recharged it for you,” Hillyn corrects him. “My brother couldn’t remember how to do it.”

Mathalas takes the wand and clutches it gleefully. “My stick! Oh yes! My beautiful stick!”

“And that sure is a lovely statue there,” Hillyn observes. “Are you working on a gate?”

“Yes!” Mathalas exclaims. “The Madgod has spoken to me, shown me many things! Once this gate is done, I will be making sure this place is sacred and safe, no shiny stones and pesky squirrels poking their noses in where they don’t belong.”

“Well, in that case, we’re clearly not squirrels,” Dranney says. “I, for one, am a bird.”

“We don’t really spend a lot of time flying to be birds,” Hillyn says.

“We could be emus,” Dranney says.

“Do those even exist in Tamriel?” Hillyn wonders.

Dranney shrugs. “I dunno, but they were funny-looking things. That nature documentary from another planet was pretty entertaining. That our mad cousin was once in the same room as while reading.”

Hillyn looks at the very confused elf thoughtfully. “You know, I think the Marauders are right that it’s always nice to have someone you can talk about random stuff in front of who won’t freak out about it. You’re not freaking out, are you?”

“No, no, everything you’ve said makes sense,” Mathalas says. “You are clearly emus. Even if I’m not sure what emus are.”

* * *

With Mathalas’ expertise, it doesn’t take too long to get the gate up and running, and soon Hillyn and Dranney are back in the Shivering Isles and ready to exchange their shitty bandit clothes for some real gear.

“You guys made it sound like adventuring was all about fun and excitement,” Hillyn says. “But it’s not. It’s about helping people no matter how dumb the shit they ask you to do is.”

“Let me give you some advice,” Moony says. “The people around the world will ask you to do dumb things. They will be stupid and stubborn, refuse to listen to reason, stubbornly insist upon pushing along paths that you _know_ will lead nowhere good.”

“So, what, are we just supposed to accept it and do it anyway?” Dranney asks with a frown.

Moony barks a laugh. “No, not at all. That’s the thing you need to keep in mind. You _don’t_ have to do what they ask you to do. You _don’t_ have to do it the way they want. In fact, it’s generally best if you ignore a lot of what they ask of you. Use your own brain to assess the situation and realize that even if what they ask seems reasonable to them, they probably don’t have all the information. You probably don’t have all the information, either, but chances are you have more information available than they do, and access to resources they can’t imagine.”

“Oh, good,” Hillyn says. “It was honestly starting to get a little exhausting. All that trouble we went to in order to evacuate that island could have been spared simply by ignoring what Captain Rana wanted us to do.”

“Probably,” Moony says with a shrug. “But even when you _do_ decide to do what someone asks you to, wandering around the land and helping people, you have to keep in mind that you’re doing it because you _chose_ to, and not because you _had_ to. And if you see something that needs to be done, or some way that you can help that they didn’t think of… cheat.”

Siris comes up to them carrying a small book. “Alright, since _this_ particular item is so easily to manipulate due to the weird thing Lexen did to it, you’re getting the bleeding-edge prototype version of the map enchantments.”

“This is a map?” Hillyn asks, taking it from him in puzzlement.

“I have included the hardcover in the latest designs, by request,” Siris says with a grin. “Since you mentioned the wayshrines, I’ve also included a detection enchantment intended to pinpoint similar sources of Aedric energy, but it’s in a very early testing stage so I’m not sure if it will work properly yet. Keep notes!” He flips a page. “On page 6. Anything you write on page 6 will be entered into my development notes. Please report any bugs, glitches, or other unusual behavior there.”

“I… will do that, thanks,” Hillyn says. “So what’s on pages 1 through 5, then?”

“Page 1 is the login page,” Siris explains. “That’s where you can write the passphrase if you don’t want to speak it aloud, but it can also be used to send an emergency message. Page 2 is map controls, while page 3 is the map itself. Page 4 is the control page for the new messaging function, and page 5 is the message page for it.”

“We can send messages now?” Dranney asks, looking over Hillyn’s shoulder. “Without having to awkwardly pray to our cousin? Because let me tell you, praying to our cousin is awkward.”

“Just be glad you’re not Greek,” Siris says, then breezes on before they can figure out what he meant. “Yes, you can send messages to any other mapbook that’s linked in.”

“Is it really a ‘mapbook’ if it’s doing more than just mapping now?” Dranney asks.

“I haven’t thought of a better name yet,” Siris says. “After ironing out the wrinkles in the messaging enchantment, Hermione made a few suggestions, but we vetoed all of them.”

“That bad?” Dranney asks.

“One of them was ‘Personal Universal Knowledge Examiner’,” Moony helpfully puts in.

Dranney winces when he works that out. “Ouch. So, am I going to get one of these too, or do I just need to keep borrowing Hillyn’s?”

Siris chuckles. “We don’t actually have any of them ready to equip people with them yet. Just the two prototypes Moony and me are still debugging. Be assured, you’re on the list for when we get them done. Just don’t get separated from you sister in the meantime.”

Dranney groans. “Why did you have to say that?”

* * *

Theryn gives a hesitant nod of greeting to the clearly-mad elf as she and Moony emerge from the gate into an ice cave.

“Do you think this will work?” she asks once they’re outside in the snow, taking a glance down at the crystal amulet to some local god around her neck Siris had handed to her.

“No idea,” Moony says. “That’s why we’re testing it.”

The little shrine stands in the middle of the little island, blue flames still flickering in its brazier, but there isn’t anyone else in sight. Nobody’s praying to whichever spirit or deity this shrine was dedicated to today.

“Let me see… she said they used their amulets to activate it,” Moony says.

“It looks like it’s already active,” Theryn says.

When Moony steps up under the small canopy and touches the brazier, his amulet starts glowing more brightly for a few moments, then a swirl of blue flames joins the light in the basin.

Theryn raises an eyebrow. “So now is it _more_ active?”

“Perhaps it was more a matter of being attuned to it,” Moony says. “I don’t know. Let me see if I can teleport anywhere.”

Curiously, Theryn comes up to the shrine and puts her hand on it. It feels warm, soothing, a spot of light and hope on this icy little island. With some trial and error, Theryn manages to get her own bit of flame into the brazier as well. While she’s well-used to dealing with magic items, this particular magic item is very odd. It wasn’t even intended for this purpose, so far as she knows, and pushing it into this is some sort of side-effect of something else, although she wishes she knew what.

“Hillyn said that she just ‘let go’,” Moony muses aloud.

Moony abruptly disappears, the echo of an image traced in blue flame hanging suspended in there air where he stood for a few moments before it, as well, fading.

“Let go?” Theryn repeats quietly, staring at the spot where he had been for a long moment before turning her attention back to the shrine. “How in the name of Elune am I supposed to ‘just let go’?”

She lets put a frustrated puff of frosty air. Well, they were supposed to be testing it. It still counts as testing even if it doesn’t work for her, right? She can’t imagine what she might be doing wrong when Moony had no trouble with it. Not that that was much of an explanation to begin with.

As she turns to head back toward the ice cave, she hears something off into the distance. Footsteps crunching through the snow. Ah, it’s just Hillyn and Dranney approaching from the cave. They’re wearing fresh equipment, but nothing that would stand out despite the fact that Theryn is quite sure Hillyn’s robes and Dranney’s leathers are positively dripping with enchantments.

“Hey,” Hillyn says. “Theryn? We’re heading back to Bal Foyen.”

“I’d love to join you, but apparently this—” Theryn pokes the shrine. “—doesn’t work for me. I think mortals either can’t use them or need to do more than simply ‘let go’ in order to do so.”

“You could meet us at Davon’s Watch,” Hillyn suggests. “There’s a shrine there, someone mentioned. Somebody probably ought to warn them that there might be an invasion fleet heading their way… We’ll be heading there once we’re done helping everyone in Bal Foyen.”

“We really don’t need to help _everyone_ ,” Dranney says.

Hillyn smirks. “If there’s something we can do, why not?”

“Because they’re going to ask us to do stupid things again,” Dranney points out.

Theryn gives a grin of nostalgia. “That’s what adventuring is all about, isn’t it? Alright. I’ll meet up with you at Davon’s Watch and lend my bow to whatever dumb cause you find yourself supporting at any given moment.”

“That’s the spirit!” Hillyn giggles.

* * *

The wayshrine deposits Hillyn and Dranney back in Bal Foyen. Hopefully they hadn’t been gone long enough for some other disaster to rear its head in their absence somehow.

They locate Captain Rana in Dhalmora. “Oh, good, you’ve gotten yourselves new equipment. You’ll need it. We’re going to need to get the signal fire lit in order to warn Davon’s Watch about the invasion fleet.”

“We already sent someone to warn Davon’s Watch,” Hillyn says.

“That’s good, but how fast can they get there?” Rana asks.

“She’s probably already there,” Hillyn says. “She was going to teleport straight there.”

“We should still get that fire lit just in case, though,” Rana says.

There it is, that insistence that things need to be done a certain way. Hillyn doesn’t bother to argue, just quietly agreeing and then going around town to see if anyone else wants anything done. Which of course everyone wants things done, they were already clamoring for assistance when Hillyn and Dranney were here not so long before.

“Are we really going looking for missing guars?” Dranney murmurs once they’re out of earshot.

“Why not?” Hillyn asks. “They’re probably smarter than some of the people we’ve been helping.”

Dranney pauses, then chuckles. “Suppose so.”

They reach the watch tower only to discover that the soldiers who had been posted there had been slain in a surprise attack. A cut throat isn’t something within her power to heal.

Hillyn sighs and puts her hand on her face. “It’s too bad we didn’t get here sooner.”

“We needed to get equipped,” Dranney says. “Getting killed repeatedly wasn’t going to help anyone.”

“I suppose, but I can’t help but wonder anyway,” Hillyn says. “We burned any time we may have shaved off by evacuating in the middle of the night when we went back to get equipment.”

“Well, just think,” Dranney says. “We can always make notes of anything that might actually be urgent in case we wind up going back in time again?”

Hillyn smirks. “I guess so.”

“Come on,” Dranney says. “We might still be able to save some guars.”

They set off to travel about Bal Foyen, finding guars and Argonians who needed to be rescued along the way. They come across two more wayshrines and attune themselves to them. One person wants them to throw netch eggs at the Covenant soldiers who are burning the fields. Apparently to get the netches to attack them and not just to be annoying.

On a ledge overlooking the fields, a Khajiit in a robe sits casually. The mapbook proclaims his name to be M’aiq the Liar. Raising an eyebrow, Hillyn approaches curiously.

“M’aiq wonders, why would one wish to leave on a bleak rock? Why not a pleasant rock?”

“Because they’re Nords,” Dranney replies. “Nords are kind of silly, and I am one.”

When they get back to the village of Dhalmora, one of the women from Bleakrock, Aera Earth-Turner, calls out to them and frantically tells them about how the Covenant is launching an attack on the fort near the village and a simultaneous attack on the docks.

“You’ll have to choose,” she says. “I fear both of them will fall without aid.”

“I’ll take the fort,” Hillyn says. “Dranney? Can you head for the docks?”

“Are you sure it’s wise to split your strength?” Aera asks.

“There _are_ two of us,” Hillyn says. “Best chance of everyone getting out of this alive.” She heads for the wayshrine.

“Wait!” Aera calls. “That’s the wrong way! The fort is that way and the docks are—”

“This is the way to the wayshrine,” Hillyn says. “Trust me!” She gives a wave and runs off before Aera can protest further.

With the wayshrine, Hillyn sees off Dranney and teleports herself straight to the wayshrine inside of Fort Zeren. The defenders there are grateful for her assistance even though they have no idea how she got inside without anyone at the gates noticing. Through considering that the Bretons of the Covenant are now teleporting inside with their own portals, they probably shouldn’t have wondered for long.

Hillyn is completely unprepared for fighting actual, living sapient beings. She hesitates, and winds up taking spells to the face, momentarily finding herself back at the wayshrine after brief, agonizing pain. After quickly checking to make sure she’s still carrying everything important, she rejoins the fight. At least the magic pack she was given works properly and brings its contents with her even though _those_ aren’t bound to her.

After the second death, one of the Nords looks shocked when she returns. “You? But I saw you fall!”

“I got better!” she replies, focusing another lightning bolt toward a Covenant mage.

The Covenant soldiers were just people, too. They probably thought they were doing the right thing, in this invasion. But Hillyn had thrown her lot in with these people, and they had been kind to her when they didn’t have to be. It’s war, though, and the Covenant had struck a poorly-defended land in the first place.

At any rate, Dranney will probably convince her to join the Dark Brotherhood with him anyway at some point. Not to mention they’ll probably wind up having to kill people for much stupider reasons. She’d known what the life she’d chosen would entail. She might as well get used to it. Doesn’t mean she has to like it, though.

With the fort secure, the Covenant general defeated, and a number of Pact soldiers very confused by her apparent inability to die, Hillyn heads out to the docks to find Dranney and give him aid if he still needs it. By the time she gets there, though, it would seem that Dranney has won his own battle as well. Hillyn goes through and gives a few people healing on the way.

“I take it things went well enough here?” Hillyn asks.

“Yeah,” Dranney says. “I only died around three times. Maybe four.”

“Same here,” Hillyn says. “And I’m pretty sure people noticed, too.”

Captain Rana approaches them. “Thanks for the hand, you two. I don’t know if we could have held the line without your help. I have to wonder, though, about some of the stories I’ve been hearing about you.” She looks at Dranney. “And I’m _quite_ sure I just saw you die. Twice. Now, I’m not one to complain of your assistance, but I’m starting to think you’re not really Nords.”

“We _are_ Nords,” Dranney insists. “With a dash of Reachfolk. Or at least, we were.”

“Were?” Rana wonders.

“We… were murdered,” Hillyn says quietly. “We were sacrificed to Molag Bal and wound up escaping from Coldharbour. But, as we’re already dead, we apparently can’t actually die again. And since we were reattuned to Nirn when we escaped from Oblivion… we appear at the nearest wayshrine when we die.”

Rana raises an eyebrow. “You’re awfully solid for ghosts and awfully spry for soulless corpses.”

“I think we’re technically ‘Vestiges’, but I’m not quite sure what that actually means,” Hillyn says.

“Well, whatever you are, you’ve been a great help here today and I hope you can continue to be,” Rana says. “I knew there was more to you than meets the eye when you washed up ashore on Bleakrock Isle. This was, admittedly, not _quite_ what I was expecting.” She chuckles softly. “I’m going to need to stay here to secure the area, but I’m sending you ahead to Davon’s Watch to make sure they know about the invasion force and to render aid. I’m going to write you a letter to give Holgunn One-Eye when you get there.”

“Alright,” Hillyn says. “We’ll help however we can.”

* * *

_Holgunn,_

_I’m sending you Hillyn and Dranney Wind-Drifter. They are competent adventurers and loyal to the Pact. What’s more, they are technically ghosts of some sort and unable to die again. I encourage you to send them on the most insanely dangerous missions you have rather than risk someone who might actually be able to get hurt._

_Captain Rana_   
_Bleakrock Isle Garrison_

“I don’t think Captain Rana meant for us to read the message she gave us,” Hillyn says.

Dranney smirks and passes it back. “She didn’t say _not_ to read it, either. Although I would have done it anyway. It’s good to know just what we’ll be getting into here.”

“I don’t think we know what we’re getting into here, either,” Hillyn says, glancing over the note. “I have a feeling that we’ll be getting into some very uncomfortable and inconvenient things that I cannot begin to guess.”

“It’ll probably be something stupid, sure,” Dranney says. “But it’ll be fun!”

“You still think this will be fun?” Hillyn says with a smirk.

“Hey, if you’re not having fun, you’re welcome to go back to the Shivering Isles,” Dranney says. “I, for one, am going to take the fight to Molag Bal, get our souls back, and save the world, and I’m going to have fun while doing it.”

“I don’t know what the Daggerfall Covenant invading Morrowind has to go with Molag Bal, but whatever. Don’t worry. Fun or not, I’m with you.”

* * *

Theryn Shadowhand is not having fun.

Getting through the portal to the Madgod shrine at Davon’s Watch is simple enough. Convincing anyone to listen to her is another matter.

“I’m telling you, Bleakrock Isle was attacked,” Theryn says. “The survivors fled to Bal Foyen.”

“Why would they go to Bal Foyen, and not here or Windhelm, hmm?” asks the Nord man.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t exactly a part of that decision-making process,” Theryn says. “I was just sent here to warn you. I wasn’t even there at the time or those Covenant soldiers would have been in for a world of pain.”

The Nord grunts. “Tell you what. Any Daggers come by here, you’re welcome to rain Oblivion on them. Otherwise, it makes no sense why they’d sail right down the Inner Sea to get to Stonefalls. They wouldn’t have been able to make landfall anywhere in Skyrim and would have had to keep out to sea far enough that no one saw them coming by.”

Theryn sighs and puts her hand in her palm. “I wasn’t exactly part of the Covenant’s decision-making process, either. I’m sure they’ve got a reason for it.”

A runner comes up to them. “Holgunn! The signal fires! The signal fires in Bal Foyen are lit!”

Theryn gives Holgunn an _I told you so_ look.


	7. Davon's Watch

Hillyn and Dranney arrive to find Davon’s Watch under attack from both sides. Outside the gates, a regiment of elven ghosts has taken up a position, and they need to skirt around them to get to the gates. Inside the walls, people are moving about frantically mounting a defense.

“Tell me you’re reinforcements,” says a Nord man the mapbook identifies as Holgunn One-Eye.

“Captain Rana sent us,” Hillyn says, pulling out the note to hand it to him. “She said to give you this message.”

“Let me see that.” Holgunn takes the note, reads over it, raises an eyebrow, peers at them over the piece of paper, then neatly folds it up and shoves it into his trousers. “Well. Far be it from me to complain about the ghosts of my kin coming to our aid.”

“What can we do to help?” Hillyn asks.

“Point us at something we can fight,” Dranney adds.

“Tanval Indoril and that half-breed Theryn Shadowhand have been working on a plan to destroy the attacking forces. They could use your help. I’ll tak you to them.”

“Half-breed?” Hillyn asks dubiously, letting Holgunn lead them off through town.

“Bet her parents caught some grief,” Holgunn says. “A Nord and a dark elf, hah! Can you imagine? And obviously before the Pact was formed, too, since she’s not a baby. We’re all friends now, but the bad blood goes back to times forgotten.” He pauses thoughtfully. “How long were you dead, anyway?”

“Few weeks,” Hillyn says with a smirk. “We were just here in Davon’s Watch last month.”

“Some milk-drinking necromancer sacrificed us to Molag Bal,” Dranney says.

“What a bloody fetcher!” Holgunn says. “Bet you’re glad to be back to kick in their teeth, then. Hah! Getting revenge for your own death. That’s something. And you might even get a second chance at Sovngarde!”

Hillyn holds her tongue on what she thinks of the thought of going to Sovngarde, and momentarily they arrive. Tanval Indoril turns out to be a Dunmer man with an incredibly distracting nose ring and lip stud. She politely tries not to stare at them while introductions are made.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Theryn says. “How did Bal Foyen go?”

“You already know them?” Holgunn wonders.

“They sent me here, since I could get here faster and they still had things to deal with in Bal Foyen,” Theryn says.

“We were able to drive off a Covenant attack on the dockyards and Fort Zeren with minimal casualties,” Hillyn says. “Hopefully we can manage the same here.”

“That’s good news!” Holgunn exclaims. “Tanval, I think they can help with your plan. I need to get to the west gate.”

Tanval nods. “Yes, Theryn and I have been working on a ritual that will rain destruction upon the Covenant army. I need someone to enter my family tomb and recover a relic that was buried there. I cannot go myself as fighting my own ancestors would be blasphemy and they were being most uncooperative in refusing to allow me to use it. Theryn volunteered but I need her hands and expertise.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it ‘expertise’ exactly,” Theryn mumbles.

“Natural talent, then,” Tanval says. “Can you two fight some undead? It may be dangerous, and I’d recommend bringing along magical weapons.”

“Sure,” Dranney says. “We’ve already fought a bunch of dead Nords, what’s a bunch of dead Dunmer on top of that?” He pauses. “They weren’t _our_ ancestors. We’re from the _other_ side of Skyrim.”

“As you say,” Tanval says in such a tone that clearly indicates he does not care even slightly what part of Skyrim they’re from. “The tomb is across the plaza. You probably can’t read Daedric, but as there’s only one tomb over there, you don’t need to worry about going into the wrong door and accidentally fighting someone else’s ancestors.”

“On it,” Dranney says.

The twins head out and down into the tomb in question, which is expectedly full of skeletons.

“I thought you hated undead from now on,” Hillyn says.

“I do,” Dranney says, severing a spine with a sweep of his axe hard enough to cause bones to scatter everywhere. “They’re creepy and annoying. Also incredibly violations of the laws of physics in that any of them can even walk or talk.”

“You can’t really criticize the laws of physics much when we live in a world full of magic,” Hillyn says. “Also that nobody else here _knows_ about the laws of physics. Most people on Nirn weren’t taught about science by people from Earth who acknowledge that a lot of it is bunk here. We probably shouldn’t believe too hard in it here, anyway. We might vanish in a puff of logic or something.”

Magic has been coming to her more easily ever since she died. She isn’t sure whether that’s because of being ‘attuned to Nirn’, whatever that means, or because she was technically made of Daedric essence now, or what. She’ll have to remember to ask someone next time they got back to the Shivering Isles. Or, wait, she could ask someone by writing in her little magical book now, couldn’t she? Something to think about.

“So, did Tanval specify exactly _what_ relic we’re supposed to be retrieving down here, or did we forget to ask for details again?”

“It’s probably the thing that very angry ghost over there is floating in front of,” Hillyn says.

“Stop!” the ghost demands in a hollow voice. “You don’t know what you’re doing! My descendant’s plan will doom you all!”

Hillyn exchanges a look with Dranney. “I don’t suppose you have a better idea?”

“If the land and its people are threatened, then take your blades and your magic and fight!” the ghost insists. “Turn back and leave now. I shall not permit you to take this relic and unleash doom upon my people.”

Dranney looks back at Hillyn. “Is this another of those dumb things people ask us to do?”

“Probably,” Hillyn says. “Oh well. Can your axe hit ghosts?”

“I don’t know,” Dranney says. “Let’s find out. If I get horribly killed, we’ll need to report this to the Marauders as a design flaw.”

As it turns out, Dranney’s unassuming axe can indeed hit ghosts somehow. They even manage to disperse the ghost without dying this time. Admittedly, already being dead, they’re under no illusions that he’s actually dead-dead, but it gives them the chance to grab the skull he was guarding and get out of the tomb.

“Thank the Three, you have it!” Tanval exclaims when they bring it to him.

“Ah, good thing this was what you were looking for,” Dranney says. “It would be annoying to go back down in there if we brought the wrong thing. The skeletons already looked like they were about to pull themselves together and stand up again as it was.”

“Theryn and I need time to prepare the ritual,” Tanval says. “We’re going to need you to buy us some time. Keep the Covenant out of Davon’s Watch, and out of the tomb, while we get this ready. Report to Holgunn at the west gate and he’ll tell you where you’ll need to be.”

“Got it,” Dranney says.

* * *

The sounds of battle and smell of smoke hang heavy in the air as Hillyn and Dranney head toward the west gate. Although it hadn’t been obvious how close things were from the other side of town, from over here, it became clear that the enemy was literally at the gates. Many of the buildings along the way were gutted, with roofs collapsed, some of them still on fire. Bodies crushed and burned lay strewn across the ground where they lay. To Hillyn’s distress, one of the buildings that had been attacked was the Mages Guild hall.

“Oh, gods,” Hillyn murmurs, turning toward it, smoke stinging at her eyes.

“Come on,” Dranney says softly. “We don’t have time to go looting books.”

Hillyn raises her staff and lets forth a blast of frigid air, extinguishing the flames. “I can at least make sure nothing else is going to burn in the meantime.”

“Good, you’re here!” Holgunn says when they make it to the gates. “Did you get Tanval what he needed?”

Hillyn nods. “He wants us to buy them some time. What’s the situation out here?”

“Not good,” Holgunn says. “The Daggers have brought ladders and siege equipment, set up on the beach just outside the city. We need those engines destroyed before they can be brought to bear against our walls!”

Hillyn frowns. “Why didn’t they just attack the docks?”

“Our defenses there would make short work of them if they tried coming in that way,” Holgunn says. “And then there’s the cliffs to deal with.” He pauses. “Also, the Undaunted hang out in the Fish Stink down at the docks. They can’t be bothered to come help defend the walls, but if someone tries to attack their favorite tavern, the Covenant won’t know what hit them. Crazy fetchers would probably try to kill a dragon if they could find one, and they might even succeed.”

“When the Covenant attacked Fort Zeren, they had their mages cast portals to bring them directly inside the walls while they conducted a two-pronged attack at the docks at the same time,” Hillyn says. “Be careful. Those siege engines might just be a distraction from their real plan.”

“Damn, really?” Holgunn says. “Blasted mages! Thanks for the warning. We’ll keep an eye out. Best not let them keep those siege engines anyway, though!”

“Yeah,” Dranney says. “We’ll take care of it. I’m sure they’ll burn perfectly well.”

“Have I mentioned yet that I’m not actually very good with fire magic?” Hillyn points out.

“So?” Dranney says. “Just hit them with lightning and I’ll hit them with my axe.” He pauses. “Preferably not _while_ you’re hitting them with lightning.”

Outside the gates, Hillyn coughed at the smoke. Down on the beach, pockets of soldiers were locked in combat with other soldiers, but it was difficult to tell with the naked eye who was who through the haze. The trebuchets, however, were easy to spot.

“I don’t know how we’re even going to get close enough,” Dranney murmurs.

“I have a good view of them from the ledge at the top of the stairs,” Hillyn says. “Let me see what I can do from here.”

She raises her staff to the air and focuses her magicka. Sparks crackle down the shaft. The trebuchets and ballistae themselves were large, tall objects that should not be difficult to aim at even from a distance. Lightning strikes the siege engines erratically, some of it hitting the soldiers as well. She burns through her magicka, pulls out a potion, drains it down, and keeps going.

This all seems like a good idea up until it turns out one of the Covenant soldiers has a bow and is a very good shot with it. Fortunately, she does not need to ponder for long how unpleasant an arrow in the throat is.

* * *

Hillyn reappears at the wayshrine outside of Davon’s Watch with such alacrity that it takes her a moment to realize what happened. How did the Marauders ever get used to this sort of thing?

She runs back through Davon’s Watch at a good jog, but by the time she reaches the northern district, the place is already being bombarded and enemy soldiers are inside the walls.

“Hillyn!” Holgunn calls. “I’m glad you’re here, but didn’t you go out through the west gate?”

“Died,” Hillyn says. “Arrow to the throat. Turns out standing on top of a hill with a big glowing stick makes you a good target.”

“Huh, well, good thing you’re not dead, then!” Holgunn says. “You were right about the Daggers. They climbed right up the cliff like damned mountain goats!”

“Where do you need me?” Hillyn asks.

“Get into the tomb and protect Tanval!” Holgunn orders. “He and Theryn need to be able to complete the ritual uninterrupted. I’ll send your brother in when he shows up — ah, there he is.”

Dranney comes running up from the west gate, having apparently had better luck with not dying than Hillyn. “I’ve hacked up what’s left of the siege equipment. What’s going on here?”

“Into the tomb!” Holgunn says. “We need to protect Tanval!”

The three of them head back inside. The skeletons had already gotten back up, but at least it looked like they were deterring the Covenant forces from getting down here either. Hillyn wishes she could just tell them to let them pass so they’d still be up to keep defending the tomb after them, but they’re still angry at them for the last time they were down here.

Tanval and Theryn were in a room beyond the one where the relic had been, working hastily on setting up a ritual on an altar.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Theryn says. “We’re almost ready.”

“We’ll need you to protect us as we perform the ritual,” Tanval says. “If they have wizards, and I’m certain they do, they will be able to detect the sudden buildup of magic down here.”

Dranney nods and hefts his axe. “They’ll get to you over my dead body.”

“Dranney, you don’t leave a dead body,” Hillyn points out.

He grins back at her. “Exactly!”

The ritual begins. Tanval begins to chant loudly, but Hillyn isn’t paying attention to what he’s saying. Portals begin opening at different points around the room. The twins, Holgunn, and Tanval’s son — who Hillyn had already forgotten the name of — have their hands full keeping them away from the ritual. While it usually wasn’t a problem, it would be very inconvenient to die _now, s_ ince while the twins would be fine, the ritual would almost certainly fail and those left in here would be dead. Thus, they wind up fighting with more self-preservation than they had been.

“Balreth, I summon you!” Tanval calls out, and this time something starts happening.

The ground starts shaking, causing Hillyn to stumble, but fortunately causing the Breton she was fighting to stumble as well. Good thing, since she’s running low on magicka again. She takes the opportunity to trip the man with a sweep of her staff.

A wave of heat washes from behind her, and she reflexively tries to summon up a frigid aura around herself, but it fizzles out from lack of energy. The Breton is staring in wide-eyed horror at something behind her, and Hillyn dares a glance over her shoulder.

A creature is emerging, from the ground but really from nowhere as the floor itself is undamaged. A creature of bone and fire, but not like a normal human or mer skeleton. Is that _ribcages_ for legs?

Theryn holds up her staff, and orders, “Destroy the Covenant armada!”

The creature does not respond or acknowledge her words in any way. It merely transforms into a ball of living flame and floats up out through a skylight. The two remaining Covenant soldiers are demoralized and desperate, and fight a hopeless fight to the death.

“Let’s head up top and watch!” Tanval says with glee.

The group climbs out through the tomb, where of course the skeletons have already stood back up again. Tanval and his son hang back and let the others fight past them. Hillyn doesn’t imagine at this point that his ancestors are going to be very happy with him regardless of who does the actual fighting.

Outside the tomb, fire and destruction is raining down upon the area, focusing upon the Covenant forces but not being particularly discriminate about it on the way toward the ships in the water just offshore. Burning sails and cracking wood, and Hillyn would swear she can hear screams even from here. The ocean claims the Covenant ships in short order.

“Marvelous, simply marvelous!” Tanval exults. “Now we just need to put Balreth back in his cage.”

“I don’t think I managed to control him much at all,” Theryn says. “He completely slipped what little control I got over him when he left to attack the armada. I don’t think he’s going to keep its destruction to just the Covenant.”

“You can’t control him?” Hillyn wonders.

“I might if I kept close to him,” Theryn says. “But I doubt it would hold for long even still.”

Hillyn takes a deep breath and looks to Tanval. “Tell me you at least know how to make him go away again?”

“Well, not precisely,” Tanval says. “But I’m sure we’ll manage it, seeing as the ones who sealed him inside Ash Mountain generations ago were clearly our equal in skill and power.”

“You don’t know how to seal him up again, and you weren’t absolutely certain you’d be able to control him?” Hillyn wonders incredulously.

“You assured me there’d be no trouble resealing him,” Theryn directs to Tanval.

“It’s not so bad as you make it sound,” Tanval says.

“It really is,” Hillyn says. “Our mentors told us not to just go blindly along with whatever people ask us to do without asking or thinking about the consequences or alternatives.”

“That wasn’t precisely what they said, but let’s not bother repeating some of their comments,” Dranney interjects.

“And we didn’t ask,” Hillyn goes on. “You didn’t even tell us what you were doing, as if we’re _idiot Nords_ who couldn’t conceive of a better plan.”

“Would _you_ have had a better plan?” Tanval wonders, sweeping an arm toward the water. “Look at that! The invasion stopped in its tracks just like that!”

“And how many more people are going to die because of it?” Hillyn says. “Will it equal the number saved here today? Will it exceed it?”

“Don’t you dare judge me,” Tanval spits. “I had no choice.”

“ _There are always choices_ ,” Hillyn hisses. “If you’d told me how bad it was and what desperation you were going to, I’d have gotten a regiment of Golden Saints to come in and fight. _They_ would have at least cheerfully gone back to the Shivering Isles when they were done.”

“You would have stooped to Daedra worship?” Tanval asks in shock.

“Like _this_ was any better?” Hillyn asks. “And it’s not like everyone who summons Daedra is a Daedra worshipper. And even if you didn’t want Golden Saints, I could have called in some friends who would have been able to teleport in to help who _might_ have actually come to help on short notice if I’d asked nicely.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Tanval wonders.

“Because they’re busy trying to keep the universe from tearing itself apart through some magical babble that’s well beyond me,” Hillyn says. “Theryn can try to explain that to you if she really wants to. I can’t.”

“Psijic Order timey-wimey business,” Theryn mutters noncommittally.

“But no,” Hillyn continues. “You were so convinced that _your_ answer was the right one that you didn’t stop to consider any others, did you?”

“Pretty much,” Theryn says quietly. “I offered, too.”

“I’ll help you clean up your mess this time, but _never again_ , do you hear me, Tanval Indoril?”

“I will not be lectured by a Nord child!” Tanval protests.

“Well maybe you _need_ to be, if even a ‘Nord child’ can tell your plan is a terrible one,” Hillyn retorts. “I agree with your ancestor and you should have listened to him.”

Without letting Tanval say anything else, Hillyn turns on her heel and heads toward the city gates. Dranney stays right beside her, and after a moment, Theryn jogs up to catch up with them.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t explain what we were doing either,” Theryn says. “I think I’m too used to doing stupid things because someone asked me to. I figured he’d do it on his own even without me and I had a better chance of being able to control the thing. It never occurred to me to simply tell him no and try to stop him.”

“I think it’s time we all started thinking for ourselves,” Hillyn says.

* * *

Although she’s sorely tempted to just return to the Shivering Isles to rest a bit after that, Hillyn decides to look for the cave the Prophet holed up in instead. They part ways with Theryn for the moment, who is going to work with Tanval’s son to try to find a way to rebind Balreth.

The cave is more difficult to locate than Hillyn was hoping for, but by the time they find it, Hillyn still hasn’t calmed down yet. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so angry in her life, not even with her mother for constantly trying to crush her dreams.

“He’s not worth the rage, Hillyn,” Dranney says softly.

“He _used_ us, Dranney.”

“We let ourselves be used,” he replies.

Hillyn sighs. “I know. That’s what I’m most angry about. The Marauders were right. We can’t full trust _anyone_ on Nirn without question. And we don’t need to become pawns of some random people we just met, either.” Another glance down at the mapbook reveals _Varen Aquilarios_ is inside this ruin. “Here we go, this is the place.”

They head inside. The Prophet has, since they last saw him, seemed to have acquired some furniture and food, including a bookcase that Hillyn has to wonder if it’s for their benefit.

“I hear a familiar pair of footfalls,” the Prophet says.

“Don’t you mean a familiar pair of pairs of footfalls?” Dranney asks.

“I am glad you are here,” the Prophet says. “We have much to speak about.”

Hillyn flops down in an empty chair and lets out a heavy breath. “Fine. Fine. Lay it on us. Tell me that at least some of this is about Lyris.”

“I, too, do not wish to allow her to suffer in that place for long, after she sacrificed everything for us. I believe I can pinpoint her location, but I have not yet been able to do so, though I have been searching. No, I want to bring the two of you into my mind to show you how we got to this point.”

“Is this necessary?” Dranney asks. “Can’t you just tell us?”

“I guess this is like our cousin’s magic telly,” Hillyn says.

“Oh,” Dranney says. “But ‘going into someone’s mind’ sounds so much more arcane than just ‘bringing up illusions around us’.”

“I’m blind,” the Prophet reminds them. “I cannot see to conjure illusions.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Dranney says. “Okay, let’s do this thing.”

The Prophet works some magic, and the twins soon find themselves ‘standing’ in someplace that looks distressingly like Coldharbour.

“Your mind is in Coldharbour?” Dranney asks in alarm.

“A part of it is, yes,” the Prophet says. “But this is merely a mental construct and not Coldharbour itself. Do not worry.”

“Good to know,” Dranney says.

Hillyn and Dranney follows along as the Prophet shows them a tale of Five Companions, including him and Lyris, along with some people named Sai Sahan, Abnur Tharn, and Mannimarco. That last name sounds very familiar. Did she read it in a book once?

“Wait a minute…” Hillyn says. “Mannimarco? King of Worms?”

“You’ve heard of him?” the Prophet says. “Good, that will make explaining this easier. Yes, Mannimarco is a powerful necromancer, but I believed him to be a loyal friend and thus I was taken in by his words.”

“Oh shit,” Dranney breathes. “This isn’t going to end well, is it.”

“No, it most certainly is not,” the Prophet says. “But I hope we can get avert catastrophe before all of Nirn is consumed. This is all my fault, and I must make amends.”

“How?” Hillyn asks. “What did you do?”

“I wished to be Emperor of Tamriel, but as I am not Dragonborn, I feared my claim would always be considered illegitimate. Mannimarco claimed to have devised a ritual using the Amulet of Kings to bestow the dragon blood upon me.”

“And he lied?” Dranney asks.

The Prophet shows them a memory of a ritual gone horribly wrong, in which Mannimarco triumphantly proclaims himself a cultist of Molag Bal and gloats a bit over having tricked them. Maybe more than a bit.

“Well shit,” Dranney breathes. “That’s not good.”

“Indeed so,” the Prophet agrees. “Not good at all. Mannimarco’s ritual unleashed a Soulburst, causing the veil between Nirn and Oblivion to be torn.”

“But wouldn’t the liminal barrier have already been down after the end of the last Dragonborn Emperor’s reign?” Hillyn asks.

“You seem well-informed in these matters,” the Prophet says.

“Yeah… I… read a lot,” Hillyn says. “Only a Dragonborn can use the Amulet of Kings to light the Dragonfires, which power the barrier between Nirn and Oblivion. Technically speaking, the Dragonborn in question doesn’t _have_ to be Emperor, or if they’re Emperor, to have much role in the day-to-day ruling of Tamriel, and it seems to me like they kind of took Nirn hostage as much as protected it.”

“The question is irrelevant, though, as we do not have a Dragonborn, whether or not one would wish to rule,” the Prophet says.

Hillyn is certain that if he were so inclined, her mad cousin might be able to do something about that. She holds her tongue, however, and lets the Prophet continue. He next shows an image of one of the Dark Anchors which they’d used to escape from Coldharbour. A sinking feeling of dread pools in the pit of her soul at the thought of trying to fight and stop these things as she listens to the Prophet speak of Daedra pouring into the world and how Molag Bal is trying to pull Nirn into Coldharbour.

She takes a deep breath and tells herself she does not need to fight this alone. While she doubts the Marauders especially care about whether one Argonian finds his guars or not, _this_ is the sort of thing they’re fully behind stopping. And at least two Daedric Princes are themselves intent upon opposing Molag Bal’s schemes.

“I think…” Dranney murmurs once they’ve emerged from the Prophet’s mind. “I think our cousin is going to want to know about this.”

Hillyn nods quietly. “He’s already more than a little concerned but he doesn’t know the details.”

“Who is this cousin you speak of?” the Prophet asks.

“Let me ask you a question, Varen Aquilarios,” Hillyn says. “Both you and Lyris seemed surprised that I knew your name already. Don’t think I didn’t notice your slip a bit there. Were you wanting to hide your involvement in this?”

The Prophet doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I’d thought it might be better if you didn’t know at first,” he finally admits. “A part of me wanted to forget again myself. I feared you would blame me and refuse to help.”

Hillyn sighs. “The only thing you did wrong was in trusting someone you believed to be a friend.” She snorts softly. “ _I_ just unleashed a monster upon Stonefalls because someone I barely knew didn’t tell me everything. I can hardly blame _you_ for doing the very thing I just did.”

“You wouldn’t blame me for attempting to become Emperor?” he asks.

“No,” Hillyn says. “Why? Someone has to be in charge, why _shouldn’t_ it have been you? I couldn’t tell you whether you would have been a good Emperor or not and it probably doesn’t even matter. And honestly, most of the Dragonborns I’ve known of were _insane_. Like, I mean, literally, seriously insane.”

Dranney pulls her aside and asks softly, “Do you want to tell him?”

Hillyn sighs. “Who’s he going to tell, anyway? And half of Davon’s Watch know we can’t die and at least a few people in earshot might be questioning my suggestion to have Golden Saints fight for us.”

“Yeah,” Dranney mutters. “I think he’s more concerned about his own secrets than ours.”

“I _can_ hear you over here, you know,” the Prophet says.

“Varen, do you know who we actually are and where we’re really from?” Hillyn asks. “Did you get _that_ sort of insight, or just vague impressions that we might help somehow?”

“I know no specifics about you. I did not even know there would be two of you. Only that a Vestige would come and help me escape from Coldharbour and assist in the fight against the God of Schemes.”

“Maybe we weren’t the Vestige who was ‘supposed’ to have come had the timeline not been altered,” Hillyn says.

“Pardon me, did you say _this timeline_?” the Prophet asks.

“It’s… a long story and I’ll try to clarify as best as I can, but it might help if you were willing to come with us back to our headquarters. Our cousin and his friends would be able to explain it better.”

“Perhaps later. Showing you images from my mind has left me drained. I must rest for the moment. Tell me what you can.”

“We were born in the 416th year of the Third Era,” Hillyn says. “Yes, _Third_ Era. We, and some other people — including that cousin of ours who I’ll get to in a moment — came back in time by the blessing of Akatosh to help repair a temporal anomaly that was causing reality to unravel in the future.”

“This is probably not the sort of secrets you might have been expecting,” Dranney says with a smirk.

“That is where you received those amulets you wear?” the Prophet asks.

“From our cousin’s friends in the future, yes,” Hillyn says.

“Who is this cousin you keep mentioning?”

“He’s… well, for starters, he’s the illegitimate grandson of the last Emperor of Tamriel in our own time. No, we’re not Dragonborn too, we’re from the other side of the family. And no, don’t hope for him to be able to relight the Dragonfires even if you handed him the Amulet of Kings, either. Just to get that out of the way.”

“He does not wish to be Emperor?” the Prophet asks.

“Not just that,” Hillyn says. “He can’t. You see, through a bizarre series of events I don’t even pretend to understand, he somehow took on the role of the Madgod and became Sheogorath.”

“There was an epic battle with the old one,” Dranney adds.

“Your cousin… mantled Sheogorath?” the Prophet says incredulously.

“I could have warned you that this was going to sound crazy,” Hillyn says. “But I don’t think any warning would have sufficed. Imagine how confused _I_ was when I first found out about it.”

“I would imagine so. Do you trust him? I would imagine that the mantle of Madness would come with a degree of insanity if he were not already insane.”

“Oh, he’s definitely insane,” Dranney says. “But not generally in a deliberate asshole sort of way.”

“We have the dubious distinction of being his favorite mortals,” Hillyn says. “There’s times he positively spoils us whether we want it or not. He’s _furious_ with Molag Bal for daring to touch us, and he wants to give you a literal mountain of cookies for helping us. So there’s that.”

“I _see_. As unlikely an ally as the Madgod might be, I am not so foolish as to discourage him from initiating a campaign against the God of Schemes. And he is also from the future? You all came back in time?”

“Yes,” Hillyn says. “We basically just rode the Shivering Isles back through a time rift. That future… was so messed up that the Shivering Isles had become the only safe place left in the universe.”

“This is going to take some time to absorb and consider the implications,” the Prophet says.

“And we need to find Lyris,” Hillyn reminds him.

“Yes,” the Prophet agrees. “Believe me, I have not forgotten about Lyris.”

“One of my mad cousin’s friends is an expert in the field of magical mapping,” Hillyn says. “I’d show you one of the magic items they’ve been working on, but, well…”

The Prophet chuckles. “Describe it for me, then.”

“They have this crazy huge map of _all of Tamriel_ ,” Dranney says. “That can detect all sorts of things like the locations of every shrine and Oblivion gate.”

“The pocket version I have receives and sends information to the central map,” Hillyn says. “And is also capable of mapping the area around me. When I was killed and wound up in Coldharbour, it came with me since it was enchanted to, and it was quickly able to map the area around me and show me the location of my brother. I used it to find a route to get to you.”

“That is quite the level of magical expertise,” the Prophet says. “But could they pinpoint an individual on another plane of Oblivion?”

“I don’t know. But you might be able to get more success from combining your efforts.”

“I will think about it,” he allows, then sighs. “I gleaned what I believed to be much insight about the future from my perusal of the Elder Scrolls, but I’m afraid it did not prepare me for the prospect of a time traveling Madgod. I see your meaning when you speak of the timeline being altered. I am a priest of Akatosh, but I cannot imagine what the God of Time’s intent is with this.”

Hillyn is quiet for a moment. “There’s a temple of Akatosh in the Shivering Isles. Strange as that might sound.”

The Prophet’s eyebrows shoot up. “That might possibly be the strangest thing you have said yet.”

Hillyn giggles. “It’s a modest place but impressive in its own right. You’ve got to see it. Um. Visit it. Sorry.”

“It is a sign of something, perhaps,” the Prophet says. “Let me rest and consider what you’ve told me for a bit.”

“Do you mind if we stay here and keep watch for now?” Hillyn asks. “Um. We _kind of_ did just accidentally unleash a monster on Stonefalls and I want to make sure it doesn’t come here and step on you while you’re asleep. Also I _may have_ yelled at the Grandmaster of Great House Indoril for not telling us he intended to summon said monster.”

* * *

{Hey, Lexen?} Hillyn’s voice in my head gets my attention. {I’ve got a new friend of sorts I’d like to bring to come visit if you don’t mind.}

{Of course I don’t mind!} I reply. {I’m always happy to drive someone mad with my mere presence and claim their soul!}

{Sometimes I can’t tell exactly how facetious you’re being at any given moment,} Hillyn thinks dryly. {We’ll be on our way once the old man wakes up. It might be a bit. He’s blind and for some reason there’s a bunch of Chimer ghosts in front of Davon’s Watch.}

{Chimer ghosts?} I wonder.

{Yeah, don’t ask me. We didn’t stick around long enough to find out more than that. However they died, they still seem to be pretty angry about something since they’ve been attacking everyone that comes near.}

{Okay then,} I muse. {Don’t worry about them. I’ll deal with it.}

{Also I’m going to try to avoid the guards for the moment since I slightly yelled at the Grandmaster of Great House Indoril.}

{You yelled at the Grandmaster of Great House Indoril?} I ask in surprise.

{He was being an idiot.}

{You yelled at the Grandmaster of Great House Indoril.} I start laughing aloud. {Hillyn, I am so, _so_ proud of you.}

I decide to manifest at the shrine at Davon’s Watch in the form of the ancient Chimer general Indoril Nerevar. Then, on rethinking that for a moment, I make it the appearance of the _ghost_ of Indoril Nerevar. That should raise considerably fewer awkward questions. It’ll also limit the amount of energy I need to manifest on Nirn. I don’t even need to be solid for this, after all.

The soldiers guarding the camp not too far from the gates of Davon’s Watch are quite surprised to see me and raise their weapons, but I spread my hands to the sides to show I’m not hostile.

“Who… are you?” asks a Nord soldier by the name of Rhorlak.

“I am Indoril Nerevar,” I reply. “The Hortator of these mer, if you know what that word means. I’ve come to see why my soldiers have returned to Nirn in this manner.”

Rhorlak lowers his blade. “I’m guessing that’s some sort of leader. They attacked the enemy army and drove them away from the city, which is great, but now they’ve been attacking my own troops too. If you can figure out why and how we can get them to stop, I’d be most obliged, sir.”

I cock my head at him. “When they died, their people were still at war with yours. While your ancestors were fine warriors and fought honorably on the field of battle, they may not realize that you have now allied with their descendants.”

“Damn, I didn’t think of that,” Rhorlak says. “Of course they don’t know about the Ebonheart Pact! Sir, if you can get your men up to speed, we’d be most appreciative.”

I nod to him. “I’ll speak with them, soldier.”

I head into the battlefield among the dead Chimer, trying to bring to mind names if I recognize any of them. While I do have Nerevar’s memories, I did not know every Chimer, of course. After some searching, I manage to bring forth their general, a man by the name of Radrathren.

“Lord Nerevar!” he exclaims upon seeing me, in recognition of my face and the spectral Moon-and-Star ring on my finger. “You have been dragged back into the world of the living also?”

“No,” I say. “I came voluntarily when I realized you were here, to ascertain what was going on. What is your status, general?”

“The city of Darvonis Watch remains in the hands of these thrice-damned Nords, lizards, and strange gray-skinned mer, sir,” Radrathren says. “We do not have the forces to actually invade the city and reclaim it, unfortunately.”

“General Radrathren…” I say slowly. “Those gray-skinned mer are your descendants. They were cursed with ashen skin and crimson gaze by an angry Daedric Prince. In the present day, they have allied with the Nords and Argonians into an organization called the Ebonheart Pact.”

Radrathren’s eyes widen in horror. “We’ve been fighting our descendants and their new allies?” He shakes his head. “I may question their choice in friends, but I must respect their decision as I do not know what may have led to these circumstances.” He looks awkwardly toward some Argonian ghosts who have apparently come back with them. “So they freed their slaves?”

“Yes,” I reply firmly. “As should you. There’s no need to keep the beastfolk enslaved even unto death. We no longer have any need for servants or laborers.”

Radrathren sighs, then gives a terse nod of acknowledgment and salutes his fist to his chest. “If those are your orders, Lord Nerevar, then I shall carry them out at once.”

“See to it, General,” I say. “The veil between worlds is weak… Until such time as you are able to make your way back to Aetherius, keep watch over this town, now called Davon’s Watch, and the Ebonheart Pact. They have many enemies in this age and their alliance is young and fragile, but it has the potential to become something great if given the chance.”

“As you say, Hortator,” Radrathren says.

He goes off to give orders to his troops, while I return to the Pact camp where Sergant Rhorlak, a couple of Dunmer, and an Argonian are waiting anxiously. The Dunmer bow to me nervously when I approach.

“Tell me the good news, Hortator,” Rhorlak says.

“I believe I have clarified the situation to them, soldier,” I say.

The ghost regiment draws back and gathers together, and calls out, “For the Hortator! For the Ebonheart Pact!”

“My work here is done, I think,” I say.

“Lord Nerevar,” one of the Dunmer says quietly, by the name of Furon Rii. “May I beseech you to answer a question for me, please?”

“What is it?”

“What really happened at Red Mountain?” Furon asks. “Which story is true?”

I chuckle hollowly. “Don’t you see? There was a Dragon Break. Time splintered, warped, and rejoined together. They’re all true.”

I release my ghostly avatar and let it wisp away as if it were returning to Aetherius.

* * *

When I sense Hillyn, Dranney, and the old man come through the Davon’s Watch gate, I manifest in the form of a Breton in my throne room and meet them coming out of the gate room.

“Welcome,” I say. “I am Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness, et cetera, et cetera. I’m afraid my dear Hillyn didn’t mention _your_ name, however.”

“My name is Varen Aquilarios,” the old man says. “Once a foolish young man who believed he should rule Tamriel as Emperor. Most recently, I called myself the Prophet, but it is the appellation of a foolish old man who thought himself wise and believed himself to have had some insight into the universe.”

That voice is _very_ familiar. Although bare-faced, I can readily imagine this man with a full beard, and with robes of brighter and more eye-catching colors and patterns than the drab patchwork ones he now bears.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, then exclaim, “It’s Dumbledore!”


	8. Tea and Secrets

{Gellion,} I think. {Gellion! Come here. Dumbledore is here!}

{Eh?} Gellion replies. {We’re out at Asylum having tea with Marty. What’s going on?}

{The old man who helped rescue my cousins just arrived,} I tell him. {At least he _sounds_ just like Dumbledore. Some sort of alternate universe reflection, maybe.}

“Lord Sheogorath,” Varen says. “I understand you have a temple to Akatosh here. As a priest of Akatosh, I am curious as to how this came about and would like to visit.”

{Never mind, we’re heading out there ourselves,} I tell Gellion.

“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s located in Asylum, an island at the west edge of the Shivering Isles. The people there are relatively sane. Let’s get some transportation going.” I conjure a carpet beneath our feet centered on Varen. “Please take a seat, and keep your hands and feet inside the carpet at all times.”

Hillyn and Dranney chuckle softly and take up positions at the back corners of the rug. Varen, to his credit, doesn’t even bother to question the strange request, and simply sits down in the middle of the carpet. Once everyone is on board, I lift it into the air and fly us out of the palace.

“Flying is fun,” Hillyn says. “Once I get better at magic, you guys have _got_ to teach me the levitate spell.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s great fun, especially for getting into places you’re not supposed to be, around inconvenient walls and cliffs, and to float up into the air to get a good view of the landscape and figure out where you’re going because somebody gave you terrible directions. Also people rarely expect someone to be on top of a roof or giant mushroom. Good way to get the drop on people, or spy on people.”

“I did not expect the Shivering Isles to feel so… pleasant,” Varen admits.

“We’re flying over Mania, technically, because it’s raining at the moment in Dementia,” I say. “And much as I love storms, it’s inconvenient to convince rain to not fall on you so you don’t get soaked when it’s just as easy to take a route that’s currently sunny.”

“There’s some sort of tingling warmth in the air, and I sense magic of some sort,” Varen muses aloud.

“I’m sorry I can’t just fix your eyes,” I say. “Your blindness has nothing to do with the physical organs. It’s a divine curse that’s beyond even my power to undo. I could grant you an ability to sense a psychic overlay of the world, but it would almost certainly make you mad.”

“I will decline, thank you,” Varen says graciously.

“The tingling is probably the sky motes,” Hillyn says helpfully. “The skies of Mania are full of floating sparks of light like plankton.”

“Plankton?” Varen asks.

“Uh… tiny animals in the water,” Hillyn says. “Never mind. Anyway, they’re alive in the sense that plants and mushrooms are alive and they have their own heat and magical signature, which is probably what you’re feeling.”

“I’m glad you paid attention to your studies,” I say. “I’d hate to have to give you a T on your Oblivion Flora and Fauna homework.”

“I’ll take a T over having to go on another field trip to the Deadlands,” Dranney says.

Varen’s expression is unreadable, but I can guess that he’s decided that we are, indeed, as insane as one might expect the denizens of the Shivering Isles to be.

We pass over Passwall shortly, crossing the Gates of Madness and flying over the Fringe. A few small islands dot the water between the Fringe and Asylum, the larger ones connected by wide stone bridges marked by signs warning people that they are leaving Asylum and madness lies ahead. Not that there isn’t plenty of madness already _around_ them there. But the madness of Asylum is that of hope in the face of certain doom. I am the Shivering Isles, and the realm must reflect me in all my myriad aspects.

The most obvious part of Asylum, visible even from the Gates of Madness, is the towering tree-city of Falinesti situated in the heart of the island. The Bosmer living here have settled in well enough and, despite having been given the option, neither they nor the sentient walking tree have taken the chance of leaving the Shivering Isles. They’re aware that the Shivering Isles is currently in the mid-Second Era and, while a few of them took brief forays out onto Nirn, they’ve decided that Molag Bal’s invasion is just as obnoxious as Mehrunes Dagon’s was and have opted to stay put.

It’s a good place to be. The island of Asylum is lush and beautiful, covered in trees and giant mushrooms in which the homes and shops of its residents are nestled or perched upon. It’s one of these buildings that I guide the flying carpet down toward.

“I sense many people here,” Varen says quietly.

“This is Asylum,” I say. “Where I granted people refuge from the cataclysms plaguing Nirn. Most of them not literal plagues. I mean, I’d have to put in quarantines or something if I were taking refugees from plagues. Or just pass out Cure Disease potions but those don’t always work on everything. Admittedly, I have a cure for corprus… never mind.”

“You’re rambling, cousin,” Hillyn says.

“True,” I say. “Here we are, anyway.”

The temple of Akatosh in Asylum is a modest affair, unlike its grandiose counterpart in the city of Kvatch. Although the building is Imperial-style, it also reflects the designs of the elves who live on the island as well. Statues of the Dragon God and his elven aspect, Auri-El, stand on either side of the small plaza before the temple.

The Bosmer of Asylum are aware that the earth and plants are a part of me. While I’ve assured them I don’t actually care what they do to the place and I don’t feel pain if someone picks a flower, they’ve decided to continue to respect the Green Pact even here. I didn’t bother arguing with them too hard about it. I like having them here, venerating me for the chaos of nature and the madness of free will. They give me a sense of peace and balance. Thus, out of respect for them, the temple is furnished with stone, leather, and bone, rather than wood and cloth.

Inside the temple, Gellion and Luna are having tea with Mad Marty and a yellow dragon plushie around a large table. As there’s plenty of room at the table, I help myself to a chair and a scone.

“Glad you could join us!” Gellion exclaims. “Who’s our new friend?” He squints at the old man.

“My name is Varen, and I am a priest of Akatosh. I was invited to this realm and I wished to visit this temple out of curiosity.”

“Whoa, Lexen, you’re right,” Gellion says. “He _does_ sound just like Dumbledore.”

“Who is this… Dumbledore of which you speak?” Varen asks.

“That’s a bit of a long story,” I say.

Gellion snorts softly. “Have my friends attempted to fill you in on alternate universes, time travel, and all that?”

“A bit, yes,” Varen says. “I have a feeling that I do not have the full story yet, but it seems that the full story is quite an extensive one. Might I know who you are? I sense… two Daedra, a mortal, and… a tiny wisp of Aedric essence?” He points toward the plush dragon in puzzlement.

“Akatosh, would you like some more tea?” Luna asks, pouring a little cup of tea and sliding it in front of the plush toy.

“To answer your question, my name is Gellion, this is Luna, the man over there is Mad Marty, and… is Akatosh actually paying attention to the plush effigy that Luna made of him?”

Varen puts a hand over his face and gives a low chuckle. “I know I should have expected madness when I agreed to visit the Shivering Isles, but this was not what I would have expected.” He gives an awkward bow toward the plush dragon. “Honor to you, Lord Akatosh.”

“It takes some adjustment,” Marty says. “Nice to meet you. As Gellion says, I’m Mad Marty. Or Martin, if you prefer. It’s been a while since I’ve met another priest of Akatosh from the outside. Somewhere around, what, negative eight hundred years, was it?”

“I haven’t done the math,” Gellion says.

“Dear Martin here isn’t actually mad,” I say. “Mostly. Probably. It’s just a cover.”

“Come sit with us, Twice-Blind Prophet,” Luna says. “We have scones and tea, Earl Grey, hot.”

“Twice-Blind Prophet?” Varen says as he slowly takes a seat.

“Luna gives everyone some sort of name or title,” I say.

“Mine is ‘The Drifter’,” Dranney says. “It’s silly.”

“Would you prefer Spike?” Luna says with a grin.

“No,” Dranney says. “No, I would not.”

“So, what’s your story?” Gellion asks.

Dranney grabs a scone. “He took us on this big tour of his mind to show us a bunch of stuff but I don’t think the whole ‘enter my mind’ bit was really necessary.”

“Do you trust them, Vestiges?”

“More than anyone on Nirn,” Hillyn says. “These people will not do us wrong. They need to know what happened. They can help us.”

“As you say.” Varen takes a deep breath, and goes into a summary of the events surrounding the Soulburst.

“This all happened because you wanted to be Emperor and Mannimarco tricked you?” Gellion asks.

“Yes, to my shame,” Varen says.

“For what it’s worth,” Marty says, “I’d say you could be Emperor if you want. I don’t mind.” He chuckles. “And I say that as the Dragonborn heir from the future.” He pauses. “And no, I’m not the Madgod’s father. I’m his uncle.”

“Sadly, we lost the Amulet of Kings,” Varen says.

“And I can’t relight the Dragonfires without it,” Marty adds. “I’m not sure what it would do to causality if I were to leave the Shivering Isles and become Emperor in this time. Would I become my own ancestor?”

I chuckle. “Time travel doesn’t work that way. Or at least, mine doesn’t. Generally. Anyway, we’re already in a Dragon Break and Akatosh sent us back to _fix_ this all, so we’re supposed to be changing what happened as it is.”

“We’ve told a few people that we’re basically… solid ghosts or something,” Hillyn says. “They’ve seen us die and get better too many times to have any other excuse. But we’ve kept the time travel thing under wraps for the most part. I think we only told the old man here.”

“And Molag Bal still has your souls,” Varen adds quietly.

“I’ll not worry too much about revealing future events that may or may not even come to pass,” I say. “But _that_ is a situation that needs rectifying. We can’t even leave this universe or time period until we’ve recovered their souls. And I am going to _destroy_ Molag Bal for this.”

Ominous lightning cracks outside as a shadow briefly covers the sun.

“I pity the God of Schemes,” Luna says lightly. “He doesn’t know what he’s done.”

It’s said to be impossible to actually kill a Daedra, and that’s probably true from all I’ve seen. However, it’s also said that Boethiah, Prince of Plots, once devoured Trinimac, god of whatever-it-was, and shat him out again as Malacath, God of Being Angry at How People Get Fucked Over. Although he survived, Malacath was greatly weakened and changed. Now that I’ve realized what Daedric Princes actually are, I know this was not literal in the sense that a mortal would eat one another, but in a matter of absorption much as Molag Bal is currently attempting to do to Nirn.

“This isn’t going to be easy, either way,” I say. “I can’t match him in brute strength, although the unlikely alliance of Daedric Princes who would prefer to be able to keep playing with Nirn might manage to put a monkey wrench in his schemes before they start bickering amongst themselves again. Still, I don’t exactly trust them not to somehow manage to make things worse. Nirn is vulnerable right now and they might just take the opportunity to get up to their own shenanigans rather than helping, after all.”

“Probably shenanigans,” Gellion agrees.

“We need to rescue the woman who rescued us,” Hillyn says. “Lyris Titanborn. She’s still trapped in Coldharbour.”

“I have been attempting to divine her location in order to facilitate a rescue,” Varen says.

I nod. “You have access to all the resources I have available that might help, of course. Siris might have an idea. And let him know how well your map is working when you see him.”

“I was meaning to write but I got a bit busy,” Hillyn says.

“So… Albus…” Gellion says.

“If you are referring to me, my name is Varen, as fine of a name as Albus might be.”

“Varen, then,” Gellion says. “It’s strange to hear you speak. I knew it was possible but never thought I’d actually meet a counterpart of… him. Albus Dumbledore.”

“Who was this Albus Dumbledore?” Varen asks.

Gellion leans back in his seat, tea forgotten. “A man I once thought I knew well, but not well enough. We were young and foolish, and thought we knew everything. Once we sought to rule a world together in the name of the Greater Good. But it was just a dream, and one that ultimately failed. He turned on me, defeated me, and imprisoned me. But I never stopped loving him.”

Dranney nudges Hillyn and whispers, “Should we really be listening to this?”

Hillyn whispers back, “I think he’s forgotten we’re still here.”

“He mellowed in later years,” Gellion goes on. “Became a teacher. Thought he could raise up young people who could fight against a Dark Lord who threatened the realm in that age. Although unfortunately for him, he wound up with _these_ lunatics instead of the bold heroes he might have hoped for.”

“I was plenty heroic,” I protest.

“It sounds like there are similarities to my own story there,” Varen says quietly.

“Yeah,” Gellion says. “Unfortunately, I was his Mannimarco, so to speak. I was full of myself and did some shitty things. And then _this_ guy came along and gave me a chance I never thought possible and I had to re-evaluate my perspective on everything.”

“We are not redeeming Mannimarco with the power of love,” I say firmly.

“Well, I suppose we could get someone else to do it,” Gellion says with a shrug.

Varen would probably be looking at us like we’re insane if he weren’t blind. Although given where he is and who he’s dealing with, he probably shouldn’t expect otherwise.

“I’m sure you’d like to get started,” I say. “I can show you to Siris’ workshop. Uh, and don’t be alarmed if Mehrunes Dagon shows up. He’s agreed to help kick Molag Bal’s arse. And will probably actually do so. Whatever he might do afterward is anyone’s guess. Probably try to destroy something.”

“This really seems like a case of pointing the person of mass destruction in the general direction of something you don’t mind being destroyed,” Gellion says.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I say.

Luna says, “One more cup of tea before you go?”

She pours another cup in front of the plush toy. The cup had become empty when I wasn’t paying attention, and the two scones Luna had placed next to it are also missing. Also Luna’s teapot appears to be endless.

“Yes, please,” Varen says. “Another cup of tea sounds lovely. Thank you, Luna.”

* * *

Theryn still isn’t having fun. She has no idea where Hillyn and Dranney ran off to, but Balreth is still loose and it’s her fault in part for releasing him.

Though it’s probably just as well, seeing as she’s having to deal with undead. The silly humans would probably just have to hit them with axe and lightning. She can just control enough of them to take out the rest and call it a day. And then it’s a matter of convincing a grumpy ghost to help.

“I knew skeletons weren’t enough to protect this place,” grumbles the ghost of some ancient mage by the name of Mavos Siloreth.

Theryn smirks and gestures back to the handful of them that were still following her. “Yes, they’re quite easy to control. Can you teach me how to make this creature go away?”

“I don’t remember how we bound Balreth,” Mavos says.

“You don’t remember,” Theryn says flatly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mavos says. “I’m dead. It hardly matters to me any longer. I can show a memory so you can see what we did, though. Hopefully you are sufficiently competent to be able to make use of it.”

She doesn’t relish the thought of having to fight Balreth on her own, or not even with the help of a couple of the locals. Where in the Void have those Nord kids gotten off to? Dying isn’t exactly on the agenda today, and while this creature is no Lich King, she had the backup of her entire guild when they went to fight the Lich King. And still got wiped because they had no idea what they were going up against.

Worshipping Sheogorath to go back to the Shivering Isles when she dies isn’t much of a comfort. She’ll do it anyway, though, seeing as every other conceivable option for what might happen to her after she dies is worse.

“I’m going to see if I can find the Wind-Drifter siblings,” Theryn grumbles. “They said they’d help.”

“Be quick about it, then,” Garyn Indoril says. “The longer we delay…”

“I know, I know,” Theryn says. “But we need the backup.”

She knows where the portal to the Shivering Isles is, at least. They’re probably still there, doing Sheogorath-knows-what. With a sigh, she makes her way there.

The Duke of Dementia, Abraxas, is the first one she locates after emerging from the portal room. “Ah, Theryn, is it? Do you need something?”

“Yes,” Theryn says. “I’m looking for Hillyn and Dranney. They said they’d help me fight a monster and then they ran off to do something else. Failing that, though, I could really use some backup from anyone that’s available.”

“One moment,” Abraxas says, then stares off into space. “They’re busy. Something about locating someone’s girlfriend.”

“Well, I guess that’s also important,” Theryn admits begrudgingly. “I’ve already done all the legwork on setting up how to bind this creature and just need to defeat it now.”

The Argonian, Moon-Over-Still-Waters, comes into the room. “I hear you need some backup? I’ll go. I need to do some mapbook testing anyway.”

“I suppose I shall go also,” Abraxas says. “I could do with a walk and killing something. Dementia has been particularly frustrating today.”

“Well enough,” Theryn says. “I’ll meet you in the gate room, then.”

Shortly, Moony comes in leather armor and carrying a sword and shield, and Abraxas arrives in a robe and bearing a staff with a skull on it. Theryn isn’t sure she’s seen these Marauders, aside from the twins, dress up for combat before and has no idea how skilled or powerful they actually are. She’d have preferred Rispy at her side, but at this point she’ll take what she can get.

And then Rispy does indeed show up on their heels, clad in simple but neat leather armor and carrying a bow and sword. “I heard you needed backup?”

“I thought you didn’t want to go out as a goblin, Rispy,” Moony says.

Rispy shrugs. “It’ll be fine as long as I stick with you guys, most likely. Say I’m a slave you just purchased.”

They activate the gate to Davon’s Watch and head on through.

“Ah, Morrowind,” Abraxas says as they leave the underground shrine. “How I have missed the lovely fragrance of ash and guar.”

“That was sarcasm, right?” Theryn asks.

“That’s Brax for you,” Moony says. “Duke of Dementia and Lord of Sarcasm.”

When they arrive back at Ash Mountain, Garyn Indoril looks at the group with some relief. “You found backup?”

“The Wind-Drifters were busy, but these two volunteered to help,” Theryn says. “And I bought this goblin slave. They promised he was obedient and good at fighting.”

“Rispy serve Mistress!” Rispy says. “Rispy good at hit!”

“My name is Moon-Over-Still-Waters,” Moony introduces himself.

“And I’m Abraxas Mallius,” Abraxas says.

“You come to help the Pact, Imperial?” Garyn says.

Abraxas snorts. “I don’t give one whit about the Pact. I’m a traveling scholar. But a monster stomping around Morrowind is a problem regardless.”

“Well enough,” Garyn says. “I won’t complain of another staff on the field if you can use it.”

Abraxas gives him a glare. “I am one of the greatest mages on Nirn right now. You should feel privileged that I am here.”

Garyn opens his mouth to protest, but Theryn quickly interrupts.

“Shall we get this done?”

“Right, yes,” Garyn says.

“I will summon some additional backup,” Abraxas says, raising his hands into a conjuration spell.

A Dark Seducer appears in a swirl of purple energy. “I come to serve, Your Grace. What do you require of me?”

“Your Grace?” Garyn repeats, but Abraxas ignores him.

“We go to battle, Dylora,” Abraxas says. “Assist me and guard me.”

Dylora gives a wicked grin. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Garyn continues to look at him oddly as they move in to battle their way past some scamps and clannfears that have apparently been attracted by Balreth’s energy. Theryn wasn’t paying too close of attention to why the mountain is swarming with minor Daedra, being too busy shooting at them with her bow. They don’t even have the courtesy of leaving being corpses she can reanimate.

“So, we are to destroy this creature, then?” Abraxas asks.

“I am not certain that Balreth _can_ be destroyed,” Garyn says.

“Is it a Daedra?” Abraxas asks. “Even Daedra can be banished back to Oblivion.”

“He’s a bone colossus,” Garyn says. “One of the Brothers of Strife.”

“If it’s too powerful to destroy outright through normal means, then we will need to divide its power so that it can be.”

Theryn snorts softly. “I wish I’d spoken with you before I went and argued with that grumpy ghost. He couldn’t remember how they’d bound Balreth the first time.”

“As a creature of ash and lava, fire atronachs would do the best job of grounding its energy,” Abraxas muses aloud. “Did they use two or more strong fire atronachs to bind it?”

“Exactly so,” Theryn says.

“Then let’s get to it,” Abraxas says, then glances over to the Argonian. “Moony, stop playing with that thing and let’s get this done.”

“But I came out here to play with this thing,” Moony grouses, not looking up from the mapbook. “I’m trying to extend its detection radius to pick up Balreth.”

“He’s inside Ash Mountain,” Garyn says.

“Are you _sure_ he’s in there?” Moony asks.

“I watched him go inside the volcano and haven’t seen him come out again,” Garyn says impatiently. “Can we please get this done before he comes out again?”

The group fights their way past the minor Daedra, who really don’t stand much of a chance against them. And with the assistance of the fire atronachs who helped bind Balreth the first time around, they immobilize the creature and sap its energy. Theryn holds the bone colossus with her staff, able to keep more control over him with his power diminished as it is.

“It’s a fine creature, isn’t it?” Abraxas muses as he examines the bone colossus thoughtfully.

“Brax, you’re not thinking of doing something rash, are you?” Moony asks.

“It would be splendid to have my very own bone colossus, wouldn’t it?” Abraxas says.

Moony sighs. “And just how would you control it again?”

Abraxas sighs right back at him. “Yes, yes, I know, it would be more trouble than it’s worth, particularly considering I can summon as many Mazken as I like anyway.”

“My sisters and I are ever at your bidding, Your Grace,” Dylora says.

Abraxas completes the binding ritual, sealing the bone colossus away within Ash Mountain again.

“Who _are_ you?” Garyn asks.

“I told you. My name is Abraxas Mallius.”

“Why do Daedra call you ‘Your Grace’?” Garyn asks.

“Because I’m a duke,” Abraxas replies as though explaining it to a very small child.

“Duke of _what_?” Garyn wonders.

“Dementia,” Abraxas says. “That’s a region of the Shivering Isles, if you are unfamiliar with your Oblivion geography. To which I believe it is time to be returning to. Do contact me again if you need anything else big destroyed. I do enjoy a good challenge now and again.”

He dismisses the Dark Seducer, and without another word, casts a spell and vanishes, leaving Garyn staring in shock at the spot where he had been just a moment before. Rispy quietly scratches his butt.

“What… was that?” Garyn says.

“The Duke of Dementia,” Moony says absently, not looking up from his mapbook.

“Why would a duke of Oblivion help us?” Garyn wonders.

“He was bored, I think,” Moony says. “Sheogorath has pledged his assistance against Molag Bal, because Molag Bal would make the world very dull, but as this didn’t really have anything to do with Molag Bal, it was probably just him being bored.”

“I need to get back to my father,” Garyn mumbles. “I have no idea what I’m going to tell him.”

“The truth, I presume,” Moony says with a shrug. “Theryn, I’ll stick with you for the moment, if you don’t mind the backup. This magic item needs more field testing.”

“Glad to have you along,” Theryn says.

“Before I go…” Garyn says, turning to face Theryn. “ _What_ are you, really? Oh, yes, you’ve told people you’re half-Nord, or at least implied and let people believe that, but I’ve seen the results of mingling Dunmer and Nord blood. They’re not common, especially before the Pact, but they do exist, and they look nothing like you. Their ears are smaller, even human-sized, and their skin pale and not _purple_.”

“I’m… you’re right, I’m not,” Theryn admits. “I’m not a dark elf. I’m a _night elf_. Kaldorei, we call ourselves. I’m from… somewhere very far away. It’s easier to let people think I’m some sort of Dunmer crossbreed. Most don’t seem to know better to question it.”

“Ah!” Garyn says. “I knew it. That makes _much_ more sense.” He pauses suspiciously. “Tell me you’re not from the Shivering Isles.”

Theryn coughs. “No. There are no other Kaldorei there, either. Honestly, it’s a little lonely sometimes, being so far from home, but I wasn’t very well-liked there, anyway.”

“That’s… sad, being separated from your family like that,” Garyn says sympathetically.

Theryn shrugs. “I’m used to it. I haven’t seen them in a very long time.”

“Regardless, I hope to see you again soon,” Garyn says. “This threat has been dealt with, but the Covenant still threaten our lands. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated in protecting them, even if you’re not from Morrowind.”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” Theryn says.

* * *

Thanks the assistance from the mapping and detection equipment in the Shivering Isles, Varen has located Lyris Titanborn in Coldharbour. His plan to send the twins in to rescue them by themselves doesn’t sit very well with me, however.

“We can handle this!” Dranney insists.

“I’m afraid the God of Schemes is likely to be able to detect any of your Daedra should they attempt to assist, Lord Sheogorath,” Varen says. “These two may be able to slip in undetected long enough to retrieve Lyris.”

“I don’t just have Daedra at my disposal,” I say. “There’s scores of living people in the Shivering Isles.”

“There are only so many people I can send through,” Varen says. “I will also need to provide a distraction. Molag Bal invaded my mind during my imprisonment and caused a connection between us, which I will use to focus his attention away from the Vestiges.”

I sigh. “Neither the transportation nor the distraction are necessary. But if you want to do the portal, I’ll do the distraction. It should be far less uncomfortable for me than for you.”

“Is it wise to tip your hand to your involvement so soon?” Varen asks. “If he realizes your intentions, it may leave your own realm vulnerable to attacks from him.”

“Oh, please,” I say. “He _will_ regret it if he tries to invade the Shivering Isles. Frankly, he’s an idiot and very bad at being a Daedric Prince and is only dangerous because of his brute power level. God of Schemes, my arse. I’ve seen better schemes from Mehrunes Dagon.”

“It would not be wise to underestimate him, Lord Sheogorath.”

I shake my head. “I’m not. Anyway, I wasn’t going to distract him personally. Trust me.”

“I suppose if there is one thing the Madgod can be trusted with, it is being distracting,” Varen says wryly.

I contact Sanguine. I’d already opened a dialogue with him and hinted at all the wonderful things I can tell him. And so, I make him a bet. I’ve never liked bets, but this is no gamble. I already know he will succeed, and I already know I will reward him. I just know that he’ll be much more interested in taking a bet than in simply negotiating an exchange. And I have quite a lot of knowledge of entertainment from many worlds to entice him to do things for a long, long time.

“Alright,” I say. “Molag Bal is well and truly distracted now. Go!”

Varen opens a portal and the twins head through quickly. I watch with some trepidation, telling myself that I need to have faith in them and that if anyone can slip through undetected, it’s ones whose souls already belong to that realm. It doesn’t make it any easier seeing them go, though.

“Why do you believe him to be bad at being a Daedric Prince, Lord Sheogorath?” Varen asks.

“Call me Lexen,” I say.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s fewer syllables and we don’t need to stand on formality here,” I say.

“Was that your name before you became the Madgod?” Varen asks.

“One of them,” I say. “Complicated. Long story. Not important right now.”

“Very well. Lexen it is, then.”

“As for your question…” I chuckle softly. “Power comes from two directions. The power you believe yourself to have, and the power everyone else believes you to have. Mortals have to learn magic by methods generally agreed upon as how magic works, but those _aren’t_ the same methods that are used in every universe. You don’t have the outside perspective needed to see the framework for what it is.”

Varen works up his face in puzzlement. “No, I had not considered that magic might work differently in different universes. I fear I had not given any thought to different universes at all.”

“Daedric Princes are universes,” I say.

“…Pardon me?”

I chuckle again. “You heard right. And that one is just _weird_. I am not this avatar you can sense before you. I am the entire infinite realm. As are Molag Bal, Mehrunes Dagon, and all the others. We have _complete_ control over how things work inside our own realms. That’s why things can often work strangely, rocks float in midair for no good reason. Gravity is just a suggestion and one that doesn’t have to apply if we don’t want it to. Fire doesn’t have to be hot. Water doesn’t have to drown you. And so forth.”

“If all the Daedric Princes have such control over their realms, what makes you any different?”

“Perspective,” I say. “I have traveled beyond the voids of Oblivion, into realms and times none of them ever dreamed of. I have seen many different realities. And…” I pause pointedly. “If someone were to decide to open gates into the Shivering Isles to attempt to invade? I don’t have to let them get very far unless I intend to trap them. Nothing says I need to allow them to move or to breathe. The other Princes often seem to forget that. They keep trying to play by the rules of Nirn, or starting off with those rules and just bending them, and thinking they’re awesome for bending them. It’s ridiculous. I don’t stick to the rules of Nirn in the inhabited part of the Shivering Isles out of necessity, just courtesy.”

“What if you were to be caught unawares, distracted like Molag Bal is now?” Varen asks.

I practically giggle at that. “As you might have noticed, my surveillance is _way_ better than his. Admittedly I haven’t taken too close of a look at what his is, but from what I’ve been told, it revolved around eyeball constructs or something? Sloppy and pointless. The map in my war room is currently capable of detecting _all Oblivion gates on Nirn_. Why do you think I wouldn’t be able to tell when one opens in _my own_ realm?”

“Point taken,” Varen says. “I still fear you may be being overconfident.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Have faith in me.”

“I am not going to worship you, Lexen.”

“Not like that,” I say. “Even people who don’t worship the Daedric Princes still believe we have power. Confidence isn’t just arrogance — it’s a necessary component of power. Whether you believe you are capable or incapable of doing something becomes self-reaffirming of that belief one way or another. And… let me tell you a secret.”

“You wish to tell me a secret?” Varen asks in puzzlement.

“Oh yes. I wish to tell you a secret that, should it get out, will very likely affirm to every other Daedric Prince that I am much more powerful than they had believed and also potentially make them all worried enough to gang up on me.”

“Are you certain this is wise, then?”

“Nope, but it has to be done,” I say. “I’ve got to tell someone and it might as well be you.”

“Fine then,” Varen says dubiously. “What is it?”

“Okay, well,” I say. “I didn’t just mantle Sheogorath. I merged with him. But not just him. Jyggalag also. Don’t ask me to explain how. We’ll be here for the rest of the era if I start trying to explain how the weirdness that is my existence works.”

“Jyggalag…” Varen muses. “The Gray Prince of Order?”

“Congratulations, you found a very obscure book once,” I say. “Yes. The one who the other Princes were so worried about that they conspired to neutralize him by driving him mad. Except that wasn’t truly why he went mad. Jyggalag was capable of plotting out the precise sequence of every event that might ever conceivably happen. He went mad from knowing his nature, and knowing that madness was the only way to alter the course of doom that awaited the distant future. Only chaos could introduce a variable to alter what might otherwise be inevitable.” I pause. “I’m still over-explaining, aren’t I.”

“I believe I follow your explanation, nonetheless,” Varen says.

“Oh, good,” I say. “Sometimes I’m confusing even to me. Anyway. Yes. Jyggalag sacrificed his sanity in order to open up the possibility that fate might be changed, and in doing so, made the other Princes think they were the ones responsible so that they’d leave him alone, believe him to be a weakened, broken thing. It was… painful.”

“So you’re saying you’re not just the Prince of Chaos, but the Prince of Order as well.”

“Bingo,” I say. “And it’s a dangerous, dangerous secret. I put on a good show when necessary of seeming to be the same old batty Sheogorath in order to prevent them from realizing the truth prematurely.”

“But Molag Bal may be able to wrest this knowledge from my mind,” Varen protests.

I throw back my head and cackle. “Oh, yes. I dearly hope so. I wish no ill upon you and have no intention of deliberately putting you in such a position, but…”

“But it’s very likely that he will be able to do so at some point regardless,” Varen fills in. “I understand your meaning there.”

“A gambit,” I say. “Should things go badly enough for that to occur, that realization would actually give me an advantage over him. A secret only has power when someone believes you did not intend to share it with them. But this secret would make him believe I have more power than he currently believes I have, thereby inadvertently giving me more power over him.”

“I am not quite certain that I fully understand,” Varen says. “But I will bear in mind this terrible secret that you do not under any circumstances wish Molag Bal to find out.”


	9. To Hell and Back

Hillyn’s heart practically skips a beat when she sees the beautiful, tall Nord woman standing before her looking weary and broken. “Lyris!” she cries out, rushing over toward her.

Lyris stares at her distantly, taking several moments before showing any sign of recognition in her face. “Hillyn?” she whispers.

“Lyris, we came back for you,” Hillyn says. “We’re here to save you. Like you saved us.”

“I don’t know how much worth I’ll be,” Lyris says. “Molag Bal has stripped me of everything that makes me _me_ , and left me bare and empty.”

Hillyn frowns. “Is there anything we can do? We’re not just going to leave you here, no matter what.”

“My mind and memories are in fragments,” Lyris speaks slowly. “The pieces have been locked away in different places. It’s impossible. I’ve tried, but I don’t have the will to do what must be done.”

Hillyn’s heart aches seeing her like this. “We’ll fix this, Lyris. Stick with us and we’ll figure it out. Just stay behind me.”

“And you stay behind _me_ ,” Dranney adds with a wry grin, drawing his axe.

“Alright,” Lyris says. “I’ll trust you. I just hope you’re real this time and not another figment sent to torment me.”

Hillyn hadn’t been looking forward to a return to the chill of Coldharbour, but she’s brought something different with her this time: Unshakable hope. There’s no greater shield against the corruption and despair Molag Bal promises. The people they pass seem gray and hopeless, most of them not even raising their heads to look up at them.

Coldharbour is terrifying, and Hillyn spends more time jumping at every noise and movement than she would like to admit. Fortunately her paranoia isn’t unfounded in a place like this, and the majority of the things that move suddenly _are_ actually trying to kill them. What would happen if they were to die here? Would they still respawn on Nirn, or be trapped here as well? Not something she wants to think about, and she does her best to be cautious and not reckless.

As they emerge from the tunnel, the landscape around them changes into something vaguely resembling Skyrim, or at least a dark mockery thereof. It’s no true likeness, and Coldharbour’s grim sky still glares down upon them from above. Lyris, however, is grief-stricken, and rushes forward despite Hillyn’s warning.

“This is my home, from when I was a child!” Lyris exclaims. “And there are my parents’ graves.”

“It’s not real,” Hillyn says. “The God of Brutality is just using these images to torment you.”

Lyris sighs, not seeming to be listening to her as she goes on about how her mother died in childbirth and she believes her father to have blamed her for it.

“I ran off to become a mercenary when I was young,” Lyris says. “But I always regretted never seeing my father again before he died.”

“Lyris, no good father would blame his child for the mother dying in childbirth,” Hillyn says gently. “And I don’t think a bad father would have raised anyone was wonderful as you.”

“You… think I’m wonderful?” Lyris says numbly. “You barely even know me.”

An image of a very tall man appears in the imitation of Lyris’ home, and given his puzzlement and lucidity, Hillyn has to wonder if this is somehow a genuine ghost and not merely another trick. After fighting off another Daedra, the three of them approach to speak with him.

“Father!” Lyris breathes.

“Lyris?” the ghost replies. “What’s going on here? Where am I?”

“Coldharbour,” Dranney says helpfully.

“No, we don’t know how you got here,” Hillyn says. “But it would seem Molag Bal is using you to torment Lyris.”

Lyris sighs and looks at the floor. “I know you must have hated me. You could hardly even stand to look at me. That’s why I left as soon as I was able to make my own way in the world.”

“Lyris, look at me,” the ghost says. “I never hated you. I just… I couldn’t look at your face without being reminded of her. Because you have her face, her hair, her eyes. You looked more and more like her with each passing year.”

“I thought you blamed me for her death,” Lyris says softly.

“Of course not. She was a Nord, and I’m a half-giant. Don’t you see? It was entirely _my_ fault. I let her carry a child of my blood without thinking it might be dangerous for her.”

Dranney clears his throat. “I’d imagine the first half-giants must have had Nord fathers and giant _mothers_.”

“Exactly so,” the ghost says. “If you and this handsome young man here were to have a child, you would be safe.”

“Hey, I’m not the one that’s attracted to her,” Dranney protests. “That’s my sister.”

Hillyn blushes fiercely.

“If you and this young man were to have a child so that his lovely sister could have a child with you, you—”

“Can we please not talk about this?” Dranney interrupts. “This is getting weird. Can we just get on with this rescue already?”

Lyris very pointedly pretends that her father didn’t say anything about that. “So you mean to say you forgive me?”

“There was never anything to forgive, Lyris. Let go of your regrets and let me move on.”

“Goodbye, father,” Lyris whispers as the ghost fades away.

They continue on through more visions of torment, the next being the mercenary company Lyris had joined. They mock her and taunt her, and hide her armor from her knowing that normal Nord-sized armor wouldn’t fit her. Even knowing they’re just Daedra taking on the forms of those men to torment her, Hillyn still takes dark joy in dispersing them with lightning. Piece by piece, they recover Lyris’ equipment.

“I’m starting to feel more whole again,” Lyris says. “What’s a warrior without their gear, after all? It took me long enough to get armor custom-made that would fit me.”

“What sort of enchantments are on it?” Dranney asks.

Lyris gives him an odd look. “It’s not enchanted. It’s not like I could afford that sort of thing, back then.”

“But what about now?” Dranney asks, then shakes his head. “Never mind. Once we get out of here, we can get you some awesome enchantments for your armor. We’ve got some friends who are good at that sort of thing.”

“Thank you,” Lyris says quietly. “It’s kind of you to offer.”

Past another tunnel, they emerge into another open area, where a projection of a robed man appears before them. Hillyn recognizes it as an illusion and not another ghost.

“Abnur Tharn!” Lyris exclaims.

“Who?” Dranney asks.

Hillyn elbows him. “Weren’t you paying attention to the exposition?”

“Not really,” Dranney says.

“He was that wizard guy Varen used to hang out with,” Hillyn says.

“Oh right, him.”

Abnur Tharn clears his throat. “Yes, I would be the ‘wizard guy’ in question.” He sighs dramatically. “Nords…”

“What do you want, Tharn?” Lyris demands. “Haven’t you done enough? You betrayed us!”

“I did only what was necessary. Mannimarco would have destroyed me had I not feigned obsequience. He still might. I wish to help you. I have a gift for you that I believe you will find most helpful.” The projection vanishes.

A ray of light from nowhere shines down upon a battle axe lodged in the ground at the crest of a mound up ahead. It is not unguarded, however. The largest clannfear Hillyn has ever seen stands beside it, standing on its massive haunches and looking down at them across its long snout. Although it has clearly seen them, the Daedra has not moved to attack yet, waiting for them to move closer first.

“Coldharbour won’t give up its prizes easily,” Lyris says quietly. “Do you think we can handle this? You look about as terrified as I was a minute ago.”

Hillyn takes a deep breath. “Never give them a fair fight, our mentors always said.”

“What do you have in mind?” Dranney asks.

“Clannfears can’t fly and that’s an awfully long way down,” Hillyn says.

Dranney nods. “I’ll distract it if you can keep me healed, Hillyn.”

“Once its attention is on Dranney, go for your axe, Lyris.”

“Got it,” Lyris says.

Dranney charges forward with his own axe, seeming considerably braver than Hillyn is feeling at the moment. She focuses on what she’s doing, keeping a thread of healing going even as the Daedra tries to chew off Dranney’s arm.

Lyris grabs her axe, and standing perilously close to the drop down into Oblivion, yells, “Hey, ugly! Come and get me!”

The clannfear pauses and turns its attention from Dranney. With a snarl, it leaps into the air toward her. Lyris tumbles to the side. While the creature is in midair, Hillyn strikes it with the strongest telekinetic push she can manage. It’s not quite enough to send it flying into the misty waters below, leaving it scrabbling at the lip for purchase. Lyris swings her heavy axe around and knocks it screaming off the edge.

“Hah!” Lyris says. “We work well together, I think. I feel like a warrior again!”

“I am so glad my armor repairs itself,” Dranney mumbles, fingering a spot where the clannfear’s fangs tore through and watching it slowly mend itself back together.

“Let’s keep moving,” Lyris says. “We still need to find a way out of here.”

Hillyn frowns faintly, wondering why Molag Bal would need to allow them a way out of here at all. But this entire path they’ve been on seems to have been set up specifically for Lyris’ torment. That assessment proves accurate enough in that the next room contains an image of one of Lyris’ friends, who is being tortured for information. A warrior by the name of Sai Sahan, who apparently knows the location of the Amulet of Kings, but has refused to give it up. Lyris rages in futility as the vision fades.

“We have to save him,” Lyris says.

“He’s not actually here,” Dranney points out.

“Or anywhere nearby,” Hillyn adds, double-checking her mapbook. “We’ll need to tell Varen and Lexen about this. They’ll be able to find him, I’m sure.”

Lyris lets out a sigh and nods. “You’re right. We have to rescue him, but we can’t do anything about this now. We’ve got to get out of here ourselves first.”

Hillyn doesn’t think Molag Bal is going to make this easy on them and that he’s saving something worse than the clannfear for them. With a sense of dread as they approach one last room, she wishes she were wrong about that.

“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” Dranney says.

“No help for it,” Hillyn says. “Let’s get this over with.”

A metal door snaps shut behind them, and a pit in the floor opens up. From somewhere beneath, a floating tentacled Daedra with too many eyeballs emerges.

“I don’t think we can just knock this one off a ledge,” Dranney says.

“Shiiiiit,” Hillyn hisses, scrambling out of the way of laser eye beams and shooting a blast of lightning back toward the creature.

“Fortunately, it’s staying low enough to hit with our axes,” Dranney says. “Okay, eyeball monster! Let me axe you a question!”

“That’s terrible, Dranney!” Hillyn exclaims.

“Sorry, I don’t make good jokes under pressure!” Dranney retorts, swinging his axe around and lopping off a tentacle. “I’ll need to work on that!”

“This is hardly a time for joking!” Hillyn screams.

“Well, if I don’t joke, I might cry or something, and that would be even less useful,” Dranney says. “Look out, more eyeball lasers!”

“I’ve got it!” Lyris says. While the Daedra is focused on attacking Dranney from the front, Lyris cleaves it from behind with her axe. The creature dissolves as it dies, leaving Dranney only slightly charred from the eye blasts.

“Well, that went swimmingly,” Dranney says, wincing. “Hey, there’s a light over there. Is that a portal?”

“I’m going to double check before leaping into it if it’s all the same to you,” Hillyn says. Her mapbook does indeed very specifically identify it as a portal to the Shivering Isles. “Yes, that’s a way out! Let’s go!”

The three of them don’t waste anymore time in scrambling toward the exit, spilling into the Palace of Sheogorath and collapsing.

* * *

“That was even worse than the last time,” Dranney says.

“No, it really wasn’t,” Hillyn says.

“There weren’t any eyeball monsters last time!” Dranney insists.

Lyris looks around in puzzlement, and her eyes settle upon me. “Where am I?”

“Welcome to the Shivering Isles, dear Lyris Titanborn,” I say, giving a small mock-bow. “I am Sheogorath, Prince of Madness, and I will be your host for the immediate time period.” I cock my head. “You can call me whatever you like, though. Lexen’s a good one. Harry or Revan aren’t bad either.”

“Was jumping from Coldharbour to the Shivering Isles really an improvement?” Lyris groans. “Wait. Is this a temple of Akatosh? Why do you have a temple of Akatosh in the Shivering Isles? Don’t tell me the Prince of Madness is a worshipper of the Dragon God of Time?”

“Eh, I’m Dragonborn, so I’m kind of already a part of him,” I say with a shrug. “Anyway, I owe him for helping me fix my own time fuckups, and I don’t begrudge him that.”

“I assure you, you’ll be safe here,” Hillyn says.

“We spent years here and look at us,” Dranney says. “Still mostly sane! I think. Are we still sane-ish?”

“I couldn’t say,” I say.

“You seem fine to me,” Lyris says and lets out a sigh. “I don’t know why the Prince of Madness would help us, though.”

“Let me put it this way,” I say. “If Molag Bal consumes Nirn, it would be _very boring_. And he fucked with two mortals whose souls rightly belong to _me_. If you can count on nothing else, it’s that I oppose the Lord of Domination wholeheartedly.”

“Fine,” Lyris says. “If they trust you, I suppose I can’t argue that it _is_ an improvement.”

“For what it’s worth, you’re in Asylum, probably the sanest part of the Shivering Isles,” I say. “This place is dedicated to the aspect of Hope.”

“ _Hope?_ ” Lyris repeats.

I chuckle. “The shades of madness are many and varied and there’s a place for each of them.”

“Lyris, are you well?” Varen asks.

Lyris gives a small nod. “Much better now that I’m not in _that_ place, at least. I’m still going to need to rest for a bit and I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“I have a date with Sanguine,” I say, waving a hand. “He was our distraction for today and I owe him one. I’ll leave Varen to get you up to speed on the details.”

* * *

With Moony and Rispy at her side, Theryn makes for the city of Ebonheart. She’s glad to be in good company again, but Rispy starts talking ‘dumb’ like what she assumes the local goblins sound like when he thinks anyone might be in earshot. Is this what the goblins of Azeroth were like before they encountered that strange substance she’d heard mentioned that had increased their intelligence? Or are the local goblins some sort of different strain entirely? This alternate universe stuff is very confusing.

Moony keeps an eye out for time breaches along the way, as well as continuing to poke at his magic book when it doesn’t seem likely that he’s going to walk into a river of lava for not paying enough attention to where they’re going.

The group has hardly crossed the bridge into Ebonheart before starting hearing about its problems. Theryn finds this to be honestly the normal state of affairs no matter what planet she winds up on. She will start to become worried should she ever visit a world in which random townspeople _don’t_ accost oddly dressed travelers to solve their every problem.

“Well, there’s an Ashlander woman hiding in the stables who wants some beasts killed,” Theryn says. “Some priest has lost his faith, and nobody wants to work together to repel an invasion.”

“Sounds like typical problems,” Moony says absently, not looking up from his magic book.

“Rispy shoot things?”

Theryn peers over at the Argonian. “I do hope you’re making progress on that thing. At least you put it away when we were actually fighting…”

“Hmm, a hands-free version would actually be a good idea,” Moony says. “It would just require an anchored levitation enchantment. Or a heads-up display, maybe glasses enchanted with detection overlays…”

“Why don’t you finish up _this_ version and distribute it before coming up with all sorts of new ideas?” Theryn asks with a sigh. “This is why you never get anything finished, isn’t it? They said you’d already been working on this for years.”

Moony grouses noncommittally but doesn’t really answer.

“We’ve got some Argonians in town apparently, maybe you should be the one to talk to them,” Theryn says.

“I don’t know,” Moony says quietly. “They might be able to tell I’m not a normal Argonian somehow. But I’ll give it a shot when we get over there.”

“First, though, I’ll need to talk to these Nords over here,” Theryn says, raising her voice as she draws closer so they can hear what she’s saying. “I never heard of any Nords that would back down from a fight so easily.”

She’d absorbed what she could of Nord culture during the brief time she was actually in Skyrim so that she could attempt to pass for someone who knew something about this world, and that was one of the most obvious things she’d picked up. That Nords liked to fight, and to drink.

“What’s a dark elf know about Nords?” says one of them.

“My _name_ is Theryn Shadowhand,” she says, sorting our her lies. “And my father was a Nord, may he rest in Sovngarde. Now, are you going to fight, or are you milk-drinkers?”

There, she’s now exhausted her knowledge of Nord culture that she’d learned by spending ten minutes in a tavern. Thankfully, the Nord in question seems more amused than annoyed at her. Also he asks her do so some drunken brawling with his people to prove her worth or something. Of course. Internally sighing, Theryn forces a grin and agrees.

“Moony, you want to go talk to those Argonians while I kick some ass here?” Theryn asks quietly.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Moony says.

“Rispy stay watch.” He takes a seat on top of a log. “Mistress make good show!”

“Well, I’m glad someone is entertained here,” Theryn mutters, and goes to get some mead. “Bottoms up.”

* * *

I owe a favor to the God of Hedonism for distracting Molag Bal at a critical moment, and it’s my pleasure to repay it. No, not _that_ kind of favor. He can get that sort of thing from anyone. No, what he can’t get is knowledge of pleasures from realms beyond the Void.

“Do we have everything?” I ask, looking to Gellion and Luna.

“Dungeon Master’s Guide, Player Handbook, Monstrous Compendium, all recreated from memories,” Gellion says, holding up a stack of books.

“Lots of little figurines of fantastic creatures,” Luna adds with a smile at the box she’s carrying.

“Does everyone have their character sheets?” I ask.

“I’ve got them,” Gellion says. “I made up a bunch of extra ones, too, because I anticipate us dying frequently.”

I snort softly. “I didn’t bring along _Tomb of Horrors_.”

“Aw, come on, it’s a classic!”

“Let’s try going easy on Sanguine at first,” I say. “It’s not like this universe has any experience in roleplaying games.”

“Okay, okay, no team-killing, got it,” Gellion says.

“This will be fun,” Luna says brightly.

* * *

> Moony: Hillyn, please reply whenever you read this message. Are you planning on coming back to Stonefalls? Theryn, Rispy and I have been adventuring out this way and Siris is planning on joining us shortly.
> 
> Hillyn: Oh, this thing does work after all. Yeah, but I’m not very keen on fighting in the war with the other alliances. I don’t care who is invading who. I’ll find something else to do.
> 
> Moony: Well, keep in touch and drop a line if there’s something you can’t handle yourself, and likewise I’ll send you a note of anything you might be interested in that we run across and don’t feel like doing ourselves, okay?
> 
> Hillyn: Sounds good. I’m thinking we’ll see what the Mages Guild might have for us, since they’re neutral in the war.
> 
> Moony: Let me know if they actually bother giving you anything worthwhile for your trouble. We spent so much time in the future trying to gain rank with factions that paid us off with rubbish.
> 
> Hillyn: I’m not helping people just for the potential rewards, you know.
> 
> Moony: No, of course not. But where do you think we got all the stuff we filled the storerooms up with?
> 
> Hillyn: I thought you guys stole most of it.
> 
> Moony: Well. True. But it doesn’t count as stealing if it was from bandits and slavers who were dead before we looted their hideouts, either.
> 
> Hillyn: I’m pretty sure you didn’t just take the belongings of bandits and slavers, though. This is me snickering. How do I snicker in text, anyway?
> 
> Moony: You might want to stop by Senie while you’re at it, too. Village south of Davon’s Watch. Had a bit of a lava problem.
> 
> Hillyn: I don’t think I can do much about lava.
> 
> Moony: There’s probably people hurt there, though.
> 
> Hillyn: And you just went through without checking?
> 
> Moony: We were a little busy dealing with Balreth.
> 
> Hillyn: And then afterward?
> 
> Moony: Kind of forgot about it. Didn’t seem important.
> 
> Hillyn: Not important? That’s people’s lives at stake there!
> 
> Moony: Hillyn, let me give you some advice. You can’t save everyone. As harsh as it may sound, you have to prioritize. While we’re basically immortal and literally have all the time in existence, remember that every moment you spend helping one person is a moment you didn’t spend helping another person whose problems may or may not have been more urgent. Oftentimes, people can take care of their own problems, anyway.
> 
> Hillyn: I guess that’s true, but it still seems wrong.
> 
> Moony: You’re already choosing not to get involved in the war. People are still going to die because of your inaction there, or survive because you weren’t helping their enemies. Your “help” doesn’t always actually _help_ people. Consider carefully before you get involved in something. And ultimately, it’s up to you to choose what to do, not every random person on the street waving their arms looking for help in stealing a bottle of wine.
> 
> Hillyn: Did you steal a bottle of wine for someone?
> 
> Moony: No… I stole _two_ bottles of wine for someone.
> 
> Hillyn: Was _that_ a terribly important use of your time?
> 
> Moony: Probably not, but it also probably doesn’t matter very much.
> 
> Hillyn: Do you just think anything that happens in this world doesn’t matter very much in general due to having been hopping through multiple timelines and universes?
> 
> Moony: That’s admittedly probably a factor. There are times when you have to be at least a _little_ selfish, when all you can take from one universe to the next is knowledge, although now that we have access to a realm that comes along with us, we can at least keep items and even people if we want now, too. We didn’t even have _that_ for the longest time.
> 
> Hillyn: I guess it’s easy to get to thinking nothing matters in that sort of situation. But we’re stuck in this time until we can get our souls back, and we may well need more resources and allies in order to do that. Even purely selfishly, that seems like a good idea.
> 
> Moony: This is true. So put your time and effort toward getting resources and allies.
> 
> Hillyn: Will the guy you stole wine for help assault Coldharbour?
> 
> Moony: …probably not. But he did give me gold I can use to bribe or hire someone.


	10. Eyevea? I Hardly Knew Her

“If you have any extra copies of interesting or rare books, could we get a few to curry favor with the Mages Guild?” Hillyn asks.

“Oh, sure,” Hermione says. “I keep duplicates in the room across the hall. Take whatever you like. And be sure to pick up anything interesting _you_ see to bring back. Don’t take those straight to the Mages Guild. Bring them back here first so I can make sure I don’t have them already.”

“Alright, we can do that,” Hillyn says.

Hillyn goes into the room in question and sifts through some books, and picks out a few that, judging by the titles, sound like something a Mages Guild might be interested in. _Breathing Water_ sounds like it’s probably about Alteration magic. _Words and Philosophy_ sounds suitably scholarly. She also grabs a copy of _The Dragon Break Re-Examined_ , as she vaguely recalls hearing some mention of the term. She’s not sure that the Mages Guild would be particularly interested in _The 36 Lessons of Vivec_ , and wonders why exactly the Library of Hermione contains so many copies of them and why several of them have been vandalized. There’s an entire bookcase just containing defaced copies of Vivec’s sermons.

Upon returning to Davon’s Watch, they discover that the Mages Guild set up in the local Tribunal Temple after their guildhall was destroyed in the Covenant attack. At least it looks like many of them survived and were able to retrieve a number of their books. They’re directed to speak with an Altmer woman named Valaste, and make some quick introductions.

“We’ve brought some books you might be interested in,” Hillyn says, setting the small stack down on a nearby table.

“Ah, thank you,” Valaste says. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.” She picks up the copy of _The Dragon Break Re-Examined_ , opens it up, raises an eyebrow and gives Hillyn an odd look. “Hillyn… it would appear that this book hasn’t been written yet.”

Hillyn blinks. “Huh?” Crap, she hadn’t actually looked at the content of the books before grabbing them. Of _course_ there would be ones from the future in there.

“‘The late 3rd era was a period of remarkable religious ferment and creativity,’” Valaste quotes. “I’d question how you got your hands on a book apparently from the 4th era, but considering the content, it perhaps should not be that surprising. Still, you seem to have a talent for locating unusual tomes. Perhaps you’d be able to investigate a lead on some other ones.”

Hillyn pauses, working up her face as she absorbs that and realizes that this particular book was out-of-time even in her own time.

“Do these books you’re looking for require beating up something to get them?” Dranney asks.

“Possibly,” Valaste says. “There’s a Dwemer ruin on the coast to the west of here, near Ash Mountain. Its name has been lost, and would probably be difficult for you to pronounce anyway. It’s called the Inner Sea Armature now. If there is indeed a store of ancient knowledge here, it’s likely that it’s still there precisely because it’s dangerous. Dwemer constructs are not to be taken lightly, and even if they’re destroyed or disabled, they have a tendency to reassemble and repair themselves over time. Are you up to the task?”

“Dwemer ruins, huh?” Dranney says. “Sounds like fun.”

“I hope you find it as entertaining as you’re imagining it being,” Valaste says.

* * *

Upon locating the ruin in question, the twins manage to get killed by Dwemer automatons twice before thinking to ask for advice on fighting Dwemer. They leave the Shivering Isles with an odd brass device attached to Hillyn’s belt, and when they enter the ruins the third time, the machines completely ignore them.

“I feel silly now,” Dranney says, poking a sphere-shaped automaton with a finger. It doesn’t react.

“Well, how were we to know that our cousin had spent a lot of time studying Dwemer machinery and designed a harmonic resonator to make them passive?”

“Is that what it was called?” Dranney asks. “I’m just gonna keep thinking it as an anti-Dwemer dongle.”

“Technically the Dwemer were the dead elves who designed these machines and not the machines themselves,” Hillyn says.

“It’s shorter,” Dranney says. “Once an extinct deep elf comes up to me and protests the terminology, I will apologize. Otherwise, I don’t care.”

“Let’s just find these books Valaste thinks are here,” Hillyn says. “Without being horribly killed by spinning blade monsters.”

“They’re almost cute when they’re not trying to kill us, really.”

“I feel like dying repeatedly isn’t very good for one’s sanity,” Hillyn observes.

As they make their way through the ruins, they grab several books that look vaguely interesting and shove them into Hillyn’s pack. The most interesting book, deep within the ruins, is one that is glowing purple and floating in the air.

“Okay, if Valaste wanted us to look for interesting books, I think that was what she was hoping for,” Dranney says. “Unfortunately, I didn’t bring along a butterfly net. I didn’t expect to need one for book collecting.”

“It’s okay,” Hillyn says. “I’ve got this.” With a telekinesis spell, she manages to grab the book out of the air and pull it toward her. Upon opening it, she frowns. “It’s… blank? Must be invisible text.”

An image of a robed man appears before them. “Well done, young ones! I am Shalidar the Arch-Mage.”

“Shalidor!” Hillyn exclaims. “I’m your biggest fan! I have a poster of you on my wall!” She pauses thoughtfully. “It’s not very accurate. I was expecting someone taller.”

Shalidor chuckles in amusement. “I’m glad to see my legacy is remembered, at least. Take this book back to Valaste, and tell her that fire will reveal the words.” Before she can say anything else, the ghost vanishes.

“Fire?” Hillyn repeats at the air. “Huh, some kind of magic fire I guess. Unless this book is amazingly non-flammable.”

Dranney eyes the book warily. “If we wind up having to chuck this thing into Red Mountain, I’m going to smack someone.”

Hillyn makes a face and holds the book at arm’s length. “Why did you have to go and say something like that? Okay, I’m _sure_ this book probably isn’t horribly cursed, and in any case, we’ll be getting rid of it as soon as we get back to Davon’s Watch. If it’s cursed, Valaste can deal with it. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

{Cousin?} Hillyn prays. {Would you terribly mind manifesting at my location? There’s a situation here that directly involves you and you might be very interested in.}

{Anything for my favorite mortal,} I reply cheerfully.

I home in on Hillyn’s location and project a weak avatar, taking on the form of a Breton man. On a whim, I add an image of the very long rainbow scarf Luna once gave me as a gift at Hogwarts.

“A Tribunal temple?” I say with amusement, glancing about. “Summoning me here is probably blasphemous on more than one level. I like it.”

“Hillyn, when you said ‘give me a moment’, I didn’t think you were going to _summon Sheogorath_ ,” an Altmer named Valaste says with a touch of horror.

Then I notice that the figure of a vaguely familiar Nord is also present and looking at me oddly. Shalidor, the naming spell declares. He appears more opaque than usual for a ghost, but glowing purple, and he definitely still registers as dead.

“Shalidor!” I exclaim. “Good to see you again for the first time. How’ve you been? Oh, dead. How’s being dead treating you? Tsk, you know, you must not have been such a great mage if you didn’t grasp immortality. Now, Divayth Fyr, there’s a mer that can stay in the game.”

“Am I going to be in trouble for this?” Hillyn asks Valaste quietly.

Valaste sighs. “Normally, consorting with Daedric Princes is not _preferred_ , but we know it happens. At any rate, seeing as Shalidor was about to send you to the Shivering Isles anyway, it’s probably just as well to save the trip.”

“So, what did you need, dead mage?” I ask Shalidor.

Shalidor gives a longsuffering sigh. “Seeing as you’re here _anyway_ , I may as well out with it. I was hoping to reclaim my island, Eyevea, which you _stole from me_.”

I rub my chin. “Eyevea, Eyevea… nope, doesn’t ring any bells. How do you spell that?”

“Don’t mock me,” Shalidor retorts. “I know it was foolish enough to make bets with you in the first place.”

“Oh, my sincere apologies, esteemed Arch-Mage.” I sweep my hand. “I’m afraid I’ve completely forgotten. Let me ask Haskill. Maybe he’ll know what you’re talking about.”

Without bothering to leave my spot here, I briefly project another avatar in front of my dear chamberlain to ask him for a summary of the situation. Upon finding out what he knows, I search the Shivering Isles for the island in question, but don’t find it.

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t have your island. I already gave it back to you, except it was a different you in a different universe.”

Shalidor stares at me. “That made exactly as much sense as I tend to expect of you, Madgod.”

I wave my hand. “There was a Dragon Break involved, and some time shenanigans. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make you a new island! What did it look like?”

“And what’s the catch?” Shalidor asks.

“Oh, right, you’d never _believe_ I’d just do something out of the goodness of my heart,” I say with a cackle. “For one thing, it can stay _quite safe_ in the Shivering Isles. You’d still be able to use it all you like, though, and I’ll stick it in the area with the relatively sane people so you probably won’t go mad just from my mere presence. Oh, and you’re probably expecting some sort of price, tests, that sort of thing, right?”

Shalidor sighs. “What do you want, Sheogorath?”

“Nothing much, just a trifle really, you won’t even miss it,” I say. “I want… your soul.”

“Do you really think I’m going to agree to that?” Shalidor says.

“Oh, who knows,” I say. “Is Aetherius really worth it? Clearly not if you set up contingency spells to summon yourself back. Just think. You can live forever in the Shivering Isles, helping guide and teach your dear, precious mages.”

Shalidor groans loudly.

“And one more thing,” I say. “That Dragon Break I mentioned? It’s bad. It’s really bad. Unless we can find a way to fix it, the Three Banners War and the Planemeld are the least of your concerns. This universe is going to tear itself apart.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Shalidor asks.

“You talked to the Psijic Order lately?” I say. “No, of course not. They’ve been working their pointy ears off trying to seal time breaches while not bothering to leave their island and instead sent out a newly-robed initiate because she was the only one who felt like traveling.”

“That… does sound like them,” Shalidor admits. “Why are _you_ so concerned about saving the world, though?”

“How mad do you think I am?” I say. “No, don’t answer that. Why do you think I’d want to see the world destroyed? This whole thing has been a mess from middle to start, and do you know _why_ I didn’t remember anything about your island? Because I was kind of mortal once and took the place of the Madgod through a series of events that doesn’t actually make sense but never mind that. Also I’m from the future and Akatosh sent me back in time to fix this and who am I to disappoint Akatosh?”

“This is certainly a departure from your usual cheese-related madness, at least,” Shalidor says.

“Wait,” Valaste says. “It might not just be mad ravings. Hillyn brought me a book on Dragon Breaks that was obviously written in the Fourth Era.”

“We were actually born in the Third Era,” Hillyn says quietly.

“And before we came back in time, everything was… fucked up beyond belief,” Dranney adds. “Temporal anomalies everywhere. People who had died coming back to life, and other people just spontaneously ceasing to exist. Geography shifting, cities moving. It got so bad that Mehrunes Dagon couldn’t be bothered to try to invade the world any longer.”

“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Valaste asks.

“We were _trying_ to quietly try to repair the damage before things got so bad,” Hillyn says. “But then some things happened.”

“The only reason we even still exist is that we hitched a ride on the Shivering Isles,” Dranney says. “It wasn’t affected by the temporal anomalies and wound up being the only safe place _left_.”

“Sheogorath built an island called Asylum and collected refugees from the disintegrating timeline,” Hillyn says. “Thousands of people sought sanctuary there, including one of those walking tree cities of the wood elves. You can feel free to ask any of them for corroboration, too.”

There’s a heavy silence for a long moment, and Shalidor stares down in some disbelief my complete unconcern over whether or not he decides to take my offer, even if I really _do_ want his delicious soul. It’s a perfectly generous one, I think. Maybe too generous still. Maybe I should have made it harder on them. Or maybe I should have made another bet I already knew the outcome of, but I think Shalidor isn’t going to fall for that one a second time. I wonder what I bet him.

“I want to see this island,” Shalidor says. “This… Asylum.”

“Sure thing,” I say.

Leaving the twins behind to try to explain things to Valaste themselves, I sweep Shalidor away to the Shivering Isles without another word.

Shalidor grumbles. “I could have opened a portal myself.”

“What kind of a rude host doesn’t open the door for the guest?” I say.

I let Shalidor look around and speak to the residents as he will, not seeing any particular need to interfere or guide him to see certain things or avoid other things. I shield Asylum from any of the more questionable elements that might show up elsewhere, like visiting Daedric Princes wanting to see me at my palace or overly aggressive wildlife in the swamps of Dementia that try to bite your arm off.

I actually wound up making Asylum _too_ completely safe for the tastes of the Bosmer and had to make sure to give them something worth hunting, so I made a wilderness island just for hunting full of increasingly tough beasts, and made sure there are warning signs on the bridge leading across to it. A small Bosmer camp sits at the Asylum side of that bridge, a group of them currently preparing for another hunt as Shalidor strolls by. He approaches to speak with them, and they tell him about how they came to be here, and how they’ve found their time here.

“He’s not what you might have expected,” a hunter by the name of Tinarel says. “We’re heading out across to hunt on the island he made for us.”

“The Daedra can only imitate, not create, though,” Shalidor says.

Tinarel chuckles. “Well, it’s a pretty good imitation of the Valenwood. And it’s got some very creative monsters out there. He gave it a name that meant something like ‘being afraid of monsters’ or something but I don’t remember what it was. Let me tell you, I was skeptical at first too, but life’s been good here. The world isn’t tearing itself apart and nobody’s invading anything. I cannot _believe_ we went back in time out of an invasion from Mehrunes Dagon only to wind up in the middle of an invasion by Molag Bal. No thanks. I’m staying right here.”

Maybe the Bosmer will eventually manage to kill the Tarrasque I hid at the south end of the island. Creativity is a pretty flexible thing when you have countless worlds to draw inspiration from. Most of which weren’t very ‘creative’ in the first place. In some ways, places like Thedas and Nirn seem like strange reflections of one another. One day I will figure out why.

Shalidor’s next stop is the Temple of Akatosh. If he was surprised at the Bosmer camp, he’s positively shocked that there’s actually a Temple of Akatosh here. He goes inside curiously and has a lengthy chat with Martin.

“You have no idea what he’s actually offering, do you,” Martin says finally, after Shalidor has explained the situation.

“He’s asking for my soul in exchange for the protection of the Mages Guild,” Shalidor says.

Martin shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin. “He’s offering a gift and pretending that it’s a price. That’s the sort of thing he does, really. The sort of thing the new Sheogorath does, at least. Don’t mistake him for the one who may have toyed with and tricked you in the past. Once upon a distant future, he was a mere man, and my mortal nephew.”

“Your nephew,” Shalidor repeats.

“I first encountered him when he came to pray to Akatosh at the altar in the temple I was serving in at the time,” Martin goes on. “I’d been turned into a baby by a temporal anomaly that had consumed the temple, and he saved me and brought me here. Oh, make no mistake, he’s definitely mad, that comes with the job description, but he’s a different sort of mad than the old one.”

“I’m starting to see that, I think.”

“And what he’s really offering isn’t just the survival of your guild,” Martin says. “It’s the ability to travel to different worlds, different times, different universes.”

Shalidor stares at him in silence for a long moment before finally saying almost in a squeak, “There are other universes? Not just the Mundus, Aetherius, and the realms of Oblivion?”

Martin cocks his head. “I have heard quite a bit about them from Sheogorath and his friends. There are worlds much like Nirn, but with striking differences. Ones that might have similar peoples, but different lands and history. And they know things about magic you might never have imagined possible.”

Shalidor closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I must return to the Mages Guild. They will need to know.”

“I’ll see you later, then,” Martin says with a wry grin.

Without further comment, Shalidor vanishes and reappers near Hillyn in Davon’s Watch. I manifest next to them again. I am going to give Uncle Marty _so many cookies_. I wonder what Akatosh might think that the final twist of temptation came from one of his priests. I’m really starting to feel like he doesn’t actually care.

“Your skill at interplanar teleportation is impressive,” I say.

“I’m making the deal,” Shalidor says. “I swear, Sheogorath, if I regret this, I will be… _very annoying_ in your general direction.”

I chuckle. “Eternity is too long to fill up with regrets, I’ve found. And I didn’t even show you the library yet!”

A priest named Tarvili Sendas, however, seems less than thrilled at the situation. “Are you seriously making deals with Daedric Princes _here_? In the Tribunal Temple? I will stand for no more of your heresy! I’ve tolerated your organization out of charity but you’ve gone too far this time.”

Valaste sighs and puts her face in a palm. “This was not how I envisioned today going. I apologize for the trouble, but where are we to go now?”

“To Oblivion, apparently!” Tarvili exclaims. “I’ll give you until sundown to remove yourselves and all of your _things_ from my temple. I don’t care where you go but you can’t stay here.”

“So, shall I get your island ready, Shal?” I ask.

Shalidor sighs as well. “Please. I will open a portal for the mages here. And if they would rather not come, they can go where they want, then.”

“I’m a bit skeptical of the situation,” Valaste says. “But I will trust your judgment, Arch-Mage.”

* * *

It’s always a rush when I claim a soul, great or small, and Shalidor is a powerful one. It’s like skooma, and just as addictive.

I cheerfully built the new island to Shalidor’s specifications as mages are bringing books and equipment through the portal. I don’t think most of them actually know precisely where they’re going, if they even overheard any of the discussion. Some of them seem to be under the impression that it’s some sort of Oblivion pocket like what they assume Artaeum is in.

I’ve placed the new Eyevea a short ways to the north of Asylum, in the opposite direction from the monster-filled one, which is on the south side. Although really, sometimes I just move things around to fit better. I don’t even need to expend any energy on a gate this time, since Shalidor’s doing that himself.

“Shalidor, sir, are you alright?” Hillyn asks. “You stopped glowing purple.”

“I’m fine, apprentice,” Shalidor says. “And you need not call me ‘sir’.” He shakes his head and mutters, “I still can’t believe I agreed to this deal. Yes, I’m not… purple any longer since my soul is now anchored _here_ and not Aetherius.”

“Oh!” Hillyn says. “I wish mine were. Damned Mannimarco. I still need to retrieve my soul from Coldharbour and get it back to the Shivering Isles where it belongs.”

“I would never have pegged you as a follower of the Madgod,” Shalidor says. “You seem so…”

“Sane?” Hillyn smirks. “Yeah, well, he’s my cousin. First cousin once removed, to be specific. Apparently that made me his favorite mortal.”

“It still seems strange to think of him as having a family, as well,” Shalidor says. “I would imagine that having family and friends does indeed make this Sheogorath very different from the other one. Nothing has randomly turned into butterflies, and not once has he mentioned cheese!”

“In my experience, he’ll do absolutely anything for his family and friends,” Hillyn says. “Even if he suffers for it or has to sacrifice something. I’d suggest being his friend.” She chuckles.

“Has he really traveled to other universes?” Shalidor asks.

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Hillyn says. “He’s got an island with a weird viewing device that recreates memories as illusions, and I’ve watched a lot of his adventures. Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles… One day, I want to fly on a starship.”

“A starship?” Shalidor repeats. “A ship that flies among the stars, or a ship made out of a star?”

Hillyn says. “The former. And there were these sort of wizard-knights who fought with blades of energy. Oh, there’s too much to tell. Maybe if you ask nicely he’ll show you some of it sometime.”

“I will do that,” Shalidor says thoughtfully. “Apprentice, if your soul is in Coldharbour, how are you able to walk the face of Nirn? You would need an influx of Aetherial energy for that. Did you use Skyshards?”

Hillyn nods. “Exactly so. Do… do you want us to find one for you? We’ve been absorbing the ones we’ve run across but we can mark the next one for you if you like.”

“You can find them so easily?” Shalidor asks. “They are extremely rare.”

“Maybe they were in your time,” Hillyn says. “They’re literally all over the place in the current time frame. Maybe it’s because of the status of the liminal barrier?”

“Perhaps,” Shalidor says. “It would be appreciated. If they are so readily available, they would be fascinating to be able to study in depth, as well.”

Meanwhile, I’m considering this whole ‘stealing islands’ business. If I could steal entire islands from Nirn, what else might I be able to swipe? And how? Stealing a walking tree-city required a very large Oblivion gate, but I’m doubting that was actually how other-me did this. I’m going to need to take a jaunt to the Archive and see if I can jog my memory of the incident any. Trying to unearth my other-selves’ memories is always tricky and potentially risky, but this is a particularly interesting matter in my eyes. Especially since Molag Bal is going to quite a bit of trouble to steal chunks of Nirn, too.

“Valaste,” Hillyn asks her quietly. “Were you planning to tell all of the guild just where they’re going?”

Valaste shakes her head. “I don’t think they need to know and I don’t think it matters. This place isn’t obviously anywhere but a pocket Oblivion realm. So long as our ‘landlord’ holds to his agreement and doesn’t cause anything too _silly_ to happen here, it’s not likely anyone will even notice.”

“So, mad cousin,” Hillyn asks the air. “What ‘aspect of madness’ were you going to claim _this_ island represents?”

“Hmm, curiosity, maybe,” I reply. “Bibliophilia? No, that would be the Library of Hermione. Although this would probably be a better place for it than Dementia. I could just move it here.”

“You’re doing that lazy ‘disembodied voice’ thing again,” Hillyn says. “Is ‘curiosity’ a form of madness?”

“You kidding?” I say, manifesting the form of an adorable little Alfiq Khajiit. “Curiosity killed the Khajiit!”

“Ah, I knew we weren’t going to pass the day without you doing _something_ weird,” Shalidor says.

“Hey, Khajiit are not weird!” I protest.

“Yes they are,” Hillyn says. “If siblings potentially having completely different forms isn’t weird, I don’t know what is. And the moon sugar! What about the moon sugar, Skooma Cat?”

“Hmph,” I say, flicking my tail. “Mages Guild needs more sleek, mighty Alfiq.”

“I am certain there must be some in the Elsweyr chapter,” Shalidor says.

“So, Shal, is the island to your liking?” I ask. “I’ve done my best to copy the Summerset-esque landscape you say your original one had, but I can’t guarantee everything is in the same spot.”

“That’s quite alright,” Shalidor says. “I’d be the only one that would notice any differences anyway, and it has been long enough that my own memory of it is imprecise regardless.”

“Okay. Drop me a prayer if you want anything changed that you can’t do yourself. The purpose of power is for helping your friends, after all.” I give a broad, toothy grin. I fade out, leaving the teeth to disappear last, Cheshire Cat style.

“Nicer but still mad and occasionally unnerving,” Shalidor mutters.

A large building suddenly appears in the air over the island. It adjusts itself, moves off to the side and carefully waits for a couple of people standing beneath it to move out of the way. “Go on, library coming down right here,” says the disembodied voice. Once they’ve moved, the building lowers itself and melds with the ground.

“Well, that wasn’t the least bit subtle,” Hillyn says. “So, want to see a library containing books from the future and multiple universes?”

“Shor’s bones, do I ever!” Shalidor exclaims.


	11. Bargains and Sacrifices

Theryn finally sees Siris again when he meets up with them at the wayshrine near Vivec’s Antlers, a strange formation of giant, hideously orange coral. At least now he and Moony can talk for a bit in _person_ rather than Moony constantly writing messages in text to him with his magic book.

“I think we’re about ready to make and distribute several of these,” Siris says. “There’s more features that can be added, certainly, but I’ve actually come up with a way to make it alter the enchantments when updates are pushed from the central hub.”

“This could not possibly go wrong in any conceivable way,” Rispy says dryly.

“Do you think you and Rispy can handle adventuring for a bit?” Moony asks.

Theryn scoffs. “Don’t you worry about me. I _am_ a seasoned adventurer here. Honestly, next to you, I’ve been feeling almost redundant. You’ve been sealing time breaches and attuning wayshrines left and right, and all the while bringing power to bear against enemies that’s not quite on a mortal level even if I can _tell_ you’re holding back.”

“Ah…” Moony scratches the scales on the back of his neck. “Yeah, sometimes it’s hard to tell. Restraint and using no more power than strictly necessary are important things sometimes, which is why I’ve been trying to stick to sword-and-shield with mostly defensive magic.”

“Yeah…” Theryn murmurs. “I know. I don’t mean it like that.” She sighs and runs a hand through her silver hair. “Sometimes I have to wonder what things might have been like if I’d…” She trails off.

“You would have been powerful, yes,” Rispy says softly. “But you also would have been a slave to the Lich King. It would have taken the whole guild to bring you down.” He chuckles darkly. “There was even one timeline in which you somehow wound up becoming the Lich _Queen_.”

“Lich Queen,” Theryn repeats, and gives a small laugh. “That would have been something to see.” She looks up at the sky. “I have no idea what I’m even doing now. The same adventuring as I’ve always done, on a new planet but it seems like it doesn’t even matter. People are always fighting wars, monsters are always threatening towns, and for all the death and violence, at least nobody has asked me to sift through piles of poop yet.”

“What do you _want_ to do?” Moony asks.

“I don’t know,” Theryn says. “Don’t you ever have this problem?”

Moony shrugs. “Not really. I spend a lot of time working on enchanted items and screwing around with my friends.”

“Haven’t had a good existential crisis in a while!” Siris says cheerfully.

“I’d be happy just sitting on a roof watching a town all day,” Rispy says. “Frequently have.”

“Don’t feel too bad about it, Theryn,” Siris says. “You did kind of just get your whole world knocked out from under you. Make no mistake, it took some adjusting for us at first, too.”

“You had friends, though,” Theryn says. “I mean, you were all in the same boat together.”

“That’s not what this is really about, is it,” Rispy says.

Theryn sighs. “No. You guys are immortal. And here I am, the odd one out, feeling more vulnerable than I ever have, even though I’m doing the same things I’ve always done. It was different with my guild, when we were all basically on the same level. We were all just as mortal as anyone else.”

“You’re regretting not taking Drakuru’s offer again,” Rispy says.

Theryn makes a face. “I wish you wouldn’t mention that name.”

“Sorry.”

“But _yes_ , I always regretted it,” Theryn says. “I always wondered at what could have been. I just threw myself in with the guild and focused on our adventuring and tried not to think about it, but sometimes at night when trying to sleep…”

“Is that what this is really about, then?” Moony asks. “Our immortality?”

“Wouldn’t be hard,” Siris says. “Apparently all it would take is us murdering you in the name of Sheogorath and then shoving a Skyshard into you.”

“The twins aren’t _literally_ consuming Skyshards,” Moony says. “Just absorbing the Aetherial energy in them.”

“So, what you really want is power and immortality?” Siris asks. “Totally understandable!”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but when you put it like that…”

“You really wanted to be a Lich Queen that badly?” Rispy asks.

“I… um…”

Moony chuckles. “Don’t worry. We won’t judge. Some of our best friends are Dark Lords, after all.”

“You guys don’t even need to eat or sleep, do you,” Theryn says.

“Not anymore, no,” Siris says. “Can’t say I miss it much. Although even before we became Daedra, we were constantly using spells to keep us from having to sleep anyway, so it was really just cutting out one more step. Honestly, though, we wouldn’t have even bothered with the not-sleeping habit if it weren’t for spending time around a fetcher of a false god who kept making everyone have weird dreams, but we got kind of used to it after a while.”

“You never miss being… alive? Mortal? Human or elven or whatever?”

“No,” Siris says with a grim laugh. “Not even for a moment. Any part of me that would have missed mortality and humanity died when I was thrown into prison without a trial after being falsely accused of the deaths of my best friends. And then spending the next ten years among terror spirits that drain all hope and happiness and joy from your soul just by their very presence. No, I do not regret never having to worry about that sort of thing ever again, or not needing to lament the loss of a decade of my life.”

“A decade?” Theryn says.

“Let’s never mind that my Dunmer self was something like two hundred years old when I awoke as him,” Siris says.

“We chose to leave the world we started on,” Moony says. “We chose to bind our souls to an immortal being who could share that with us so that we would be able to travel with him away from that world and stick together as friends. We didn’t choose to become Daedra and didn’t really know what we were getting into. But it didn’t change as much as you might imagine it would, given that we _already_ had a number of weird circumstances going on anyway.”

“And I don’t have any of that,” Theryn says. “I’m just… flotsam, adrift in a multiverse I wasn’t even aware of before, blown to this world by some sort of strange chance.”

“It might not be,” Rispy says quietly. “You might be here because I wanted you to be.”

Theryn raises an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“I don’t pretend to know how this alternate universe business works,” Rispy says. “I’ve just watched it, across many, many iterations. But here, on Nirn, we ran across an artifact called the Heart of Lorkhan, considered to be the heart of a dead god. Messing with it can apparently alter the universe. I was the one who used it on the last loop, the one that created this timeline. This broken timeline full of weirdness and inconsistencies.”

“How would you have gotten _me_ in it, though?” Theryn asks. “And if you were really altering the universe, why wouldn’t it have simply created an alternate universe version of me rather than pull in the me from Azeroth?”

“Because I may have been thinking of the you from Azeroth specifically,” Rispy says. “I’d once thought of comparing the aforementioned false god who makes bad dreams with the Lich King. They were certainly both enough of a pain in the ass.” He shakes his head. “I have nothing but speculation, and I try to leave even the speculating to others. It hurts my head.”

“Well, regardless of how I got here, I’m here now,” Theryn says. “And I can’t really complain of being here. I wouldn’t have even complained if I’d been here by myself without anyone I knew from before.”

“You’d have been dead,” Rispy says flatly.

“What?”

“That was why we had to come back,” Moony says. “You were murdered and failed in your mission to seal the time breaches.”

“ _That_ was why I failed?” Theryn says. “Not just because I screwed up, or tried to take on a monster too tough for me, but because I was _murdered_?”

“Yep,” Siris says. “Possibly by Mannimarco and his cultists, but we don’t exactly have any evidence in an eight hundred year old murder mystery in an alternate timeline.”

“Not that I can even see the time breaches without the Augur of the Obscure,” Theryn says. “And I left it with Hermione. But… I guess it’s gratifying to know that I probably didn’t fail through any fault of my own.”

“It might not have been me thinking about you directly,” Rispy says. “But maybe about wishing for some way to traverse universes. That was almost certainly on my mind on some level. You winding up in the timeline eight hundred years in the past was just a logical consequence. There might be other people who also turned up from different universes at various points in history. You’d just be the one who wound up in the situation that was relevant to what was going on with the world.”

“I’m kind of glad I was, looking at it that way,” Theryn says. “Even if I _did_ get murdered before you lot went and changed time. I guess I already owe you my life in a bizarre, roundabout way.”

“No life debts for time travel,” Siris says. “Too complicated.”

Theryn leans against the wayshrine, looking into the flickering blue flames. “I’m apparently going to need to do something if I want to be able to use these things, too. I never studied teleportation or portal magic or anything. So, you say you bound your souls to him _before_ he became a god? How did that work?”

“On some level, I think he was always a god,” Rispy says. “He just never really realized it. And now he’s got the power of a Daedric Prince on top of his own temporal abilities and general indestructibility.”

“We did rituals for it,” Moony says. “That last one was an incredibly complicated affair that was meant to bind us together, as equals, in a way that could never be broken. The other rituals before then were simple, often violent and painful things. They were along the lines of what would be called demonic or Daedric pacts, depending on universe.”

“None of you had any trepidation about entering into a demonic pact?” Theryn asks.

Moony chuckles. “The ones who went that route certainly didn’t, at any rate. Anyone that didn’t want to come would have backed out long before we got to that point, anyway.”

“As I heard it, Gellion practically begged,” Siris says.

“Think about it,” Moony says. “You don’t need to decide now what to do. It’s not exactly something easily undone if you change your mind. And if you’re giving worship to Sheogorath, it’s likely he’ll still be able to take your soul whenever you die by any cause anyway.”

Theryn gives a nod. “Right, I’ll be sure to do that, then. Night elves are supposed to turn into wisps and rejoin the forest or something when we die, but that hardly sounds like a great prospect when there are no other night elves around. Also I don’t _like_ other night elves anyway so it’s probably just as well there aren’t any around here.”

Moony passes off his magic book to her. “You and Rispy had best keep a hold of one of these so we can stay in touch.”

“Thanks,” Theryn says.

* * *

Hillyn and Dranney don’t receive a particularly warm welcome back in Davon’s Watch. While they still receive respect for their role in defending Davon’s Watch from the Daggerfall Covenant, it’s tinged with a touch of nervousness. People look away quickly, shuffle past a little too hastily.

“So, sister of mine,” Dranney says. “Where to now? I feel like we’ve worn out our welcome here a bit.”

“I don’t know,” Hillyn admits. “We could just start walking, activating wayshrines along the way.”

Dranney snorts softly. “If we’re going to be doing more traveling, how about we ride instead? Surely we can afford some steeds or something. Or, I know! We could ride a Dwemer contraption!”

“That just sounds like a terrible idea,” Hillyn says.

“And I _know_ our cousin is hiding a giant robot in his palace,” Dranney says. “I’ll bet we could ride it!”

“No,” Hillyn says firmly. “For one thing, we don’t know how to put it together. For another, I’m sure it’s in pieces for a reason. And did you ever read the sign? It said its name was something long starting with an A that I don’t remember and said not to activate it under any circumstances. Not that I’m even sure _how_ you’d activate it anyway.”

“Fiiine, but I’m sure we could ride one of those big spider things, too,” Dranney says.

“No. Look, we _were_ taught how to ride. Come on. Let’s just go see the stablemaster.”

“I’m sure we could bring in something cool to ride from the Shivering Isles,” Dranney says.

“And we’ve _already_ attracted too much attention as it is,” Hillyn says. “I just want to ride far enough that people aren’t giving the side looks to the weird immortal Daedra worshippers.”

While Hillyn was dreading the prospect of dealing with a Dunmer stablemaster who would insist on them buying guar, refreshingly it turns out to be a Nord woman by the name of Lorela who is offering actual horses for sale.

“Be careful if you take these babies further into the Ashlands,” Lorela says. “These are good Rift horses, but they’re not used to dealing with ash and lava. I’m sure a dark elf would tell you a guar would get better footing, and you know what I say to that? They can just go ride a guar if they want. I’m a Nord, and I’m sticking with horses.”

“Guars don’t look very comfortable to ride on,” Dranney says. “Where would your feet even go?”

“Thank you, Lorela,” Hillyn says, passing over the coin to her. “We’ll take good care of them.”

* * *

Dealing with Vivec’s Antlers turns out to be just as annoying as Theryn feared. In addition to the Covenant soldiers, who are just humans after all, they also have to deal with these giant lobster-like creatures called dreugh which remind her a bit of the makrura back on Azeroth. And they’re all angry, because of course they are.

Rispy decided to put on an Ebonheart Pact tabard just to decrease the chance of anyone shooting at him if they spotted him by himself. Of course, this just meant the Covenant were even more likely to shoot at him than they’d shoot at some random goblin that wandered in, but that was a reasonable trade-off.

At least they don’t need to deal with it by themselves. A bearded blond Nord with a very familiar face has decided to join up with them in the push. He introduces himself as Scregor Bright-Dragon. She’d last seen him as a dwarf paladin, but he’s definitely still the same Scregor even if he’s twice as tall and doesn’t remember her. Rispy seems to take encountering the alternate universe parallel in stride, but Theryn isn’t used to it and is a little creeped out by it.

Once the situation at Vivec’s Antlers becomes stable after some weirdness with the coral Theryn prefers not to think too hard about, they’re sent up the coast to deal with some more Covenant forces who have apparently taken a fort on the northern border of Stonefalls.

“Does this happen often?” Theryn asks quietly as they’re walking a bit behind Scregor, after jotting down a quick update for Moony in the book he gave her.

“Does what?” Rispy wonders.

“Things like…” She nods toward the Nord, who isn’t paying attention to them.

“Yep,” Rispy says. “Run into people like that all time. See more no surprise Rispy.”

As weird as it makes her feel, she’s not going to complain of someone willing to charge headlong into battle so that she can stand behind him. And she can definitely count on any version of Scregor to do that. Along the way there to the fort, Rispy almost gets shot at by an overenthusiastic Nord who, to be fair, has just had his keep assaulted by goblins.

“Didn’t think I’d see a goblin wearing a Pact insignia,” says the Nord.

“Rispy wear symbol so no get shot at!” Rispy says. “Rispy stab things for Mistress!”

“He’s very good at stabbing things,” Theryn agrees.

The people at the keep, which turns out to be run by a Nord man married to a Dunmer woman, decide to hire on Theryn and Rispy in the hopes that being a goblin will help Rispy convince the other goblins to knock it off. It does not. They still wind up having to beat up quite a few goblins, but eventually said goblins get the point.

* * *

The problem with horses, as it it turns out, is that they need to eat and sleep even when you don’t.

“I knew we should have gone with Dwemer contraptions,” Dranney mutters. “I’ll bet _they_ could keep running forever.”

“Would you have preferred to walk?” Hillyn asks.

“I’d prefer a Daedric steed,” Dranney says.

“Oh yes, like that’s avoiding attracting too much unwanted attention,” Hillyn says.

“An undead horse, maybe?” Dranney suggests with a grin. “You know, we’re not going to be able to take horses through a wayshrine.”

“No, but they’d be good for mapping out new wayshrines,” Hillyn says. “Come on, we’re almost to Deshaan.”

They run across a dark elf on the road south of Kragenmoor who is yelling something about a plague that’s turning people into walking husks.

Hillyn groans. “This plague. Does it affect horses?”

“Do you care more about your horses than yourselves?” the Dunmer replies.

“Well, we’d be happy to take the risk ourselves,” Dranney says. “But I’d hate to see my sister’s pretty white horse turn into a zombie or something. Ew.”

“I haven’t seen it happen yet but now I never want to see it.”

“Sis, let’s take the horses back to Kragenmoor,” Dranney says.

“Are you alright there, sir?” Hillyn asks him. “Do you want a lift to Kragenmoor?”

“It would be much appreciated, thank you,” he says. “The name’s Gorvyn Dren, by the way. If you do head for the Serk, can you let my cousin Dandrii know I’m alright?”

“Will do.” Hillyn climbs off to let him ride her horse, and gets up behind Dranney on his own brown horse.

* * *

{Hey, cousin,} Hillyn prays. {Did you know you can just buy souls?}

I turn my attention to her in puzzlement. {I never really thought about it. Are people that easy to bribe?}

{Apparently,} Hillyn replies. {There’s this guy in Kragenmoor who is offering five hundred gold per soul. The victims get the money, then a month later they get soul trapped. Turns out he’s actually gotten a few takers. Weird.}

{Seriously? I can do better than _that_. They can even get their whole natural life ahead of them before I claim their soul!}

{I know, right? Thing is, a lot of them are destitute, addicts, and slaves. They don’t have any good prospects as it is. I just saw a Khajiit slave about to trade his soul away so he could get some moon sugar and an escape from servitude. I intervened and gave him a better offer. Also I’m going to need to grab some more gold. I only had enough money on me to buy one slave after selling our horses.}

{Hillyn, I am _so_ proud of you.}

While claiming a soul that has died is like consuming something in one burst, the worship of living beings is a steady influx of energy and probably just as important. I’m not sure if there’s a difference between whether they’re in the Shivering Isles or on Nirn aside from the obvious fact that if they’re on Nirn when I shift universes, I won’t be able to take them with me unless I collect them all beforehand like I did before the time jump. I refused to abandon one single mad soul in that disintegrating universe.

It never would have occurred to me to go recruiting followers in such a way, though. But really, why not? Why not sell your soul for a living wage and a benefits plan, for that matter? Or open a kitchen offering free food in exchange for worship? I’ve got the whole cheese thing going on, would that count if they were sufficiently ‘silly’ or cheese-related? I can’t exactly be stepping in on the bailiwick of the Aedra in charity if _they’re_ not helping these people, anyway.

Of course, there’s the small problem that worship of me is illegal in most places. Then again, most places will also ignore Daedra worship if it’s done in private and you don’t murder anyone. It’s not like anyone has torn down the Daedric shrine in plain sight on the hill north of Kragenmoor, either.

I thank Hillyn and begin to make some plans. This sort of recruiting won’t be free but it will almost certainly result in a net gain, if all goes well.

* * *

Upon arrival at Fort Virak, Theryn can immediately tell something isn’t right. She’s spent so much time around the undead that she only needs to take one look at the enemy soldiers to recognize them as such, before even doing a Detect Undead.

“Let me get this straight,” Theryn says. “You said you were politely letting them collect their dead every night, and then you’re surprised that they just keep throwing zombies at you? Seriously?”

Garyn Indoril scowls deeply at her words. “Are you certain of this?”

“I cast a detection spell,” Theryn says. “Also some of them are shambling about vomiting on people, didn’t you _notice_?”

“I suspected something was wrong but without proof, I didn’t want to worry anyone.”

Theryn sighs and rolls her eyes. She likes Garyn, but by Sheogorath these people are stupid sometimes. Does _nobody_ here know how to deal with undead? They seem to be just as common here as on Azeroth, so you’d think it would be a part of basic training. Then again, people on Azeroth still managed to be pretty stupid about it, too. Why does _anyone_ think crypts and graveyards are a good idea when people can just raise them as zombies and skeletons? Or when they just spontaneously do it on their own, like she’s seen way too many times?

“Why is it that people are always concealing important information because they ‘didn’t want to worry anyone’? Just _burn the bodies_. That’ll make it harder for them to get any useful reinforcements out of it, and if you’ve got any mages in your ranks it doesn’t even need to look deliberate. Dismemberment is good too, just put those axes to work.”

“That doesn’t really help us now though,” Garyn says. “It would just make it harder to keep coming back at us. But the situation is already untenable with us taking attrition and them not.”

Theryn looks at him warily. “Okay. Well. How much of my help do you want?”

“As much as you can give, of course.”

“I might be able to simply turn their entire undead army against them. My skills might not have been enough for something like Balreth, but crude zombies like this shouldn’t be a problem.”

A grin slowly spreads across Garyn’s face. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week.”

Flanked by Scregor and Rispy to keep anything from getting too close, Theryn charges in and wrests control of the undead from the Covenant necromancer who had reanimated them. He’s strong, but he’s no Lich King, and he clearly wasn’t expecting to have to exert any serious control over his small army.

They break the enemy lines and penetrate the fort. Ebonheart Pact forces do battle to take control of the courtyard, but Theryn’s focus is upon finding the necromancer responsible for the undead. The grunts can deal with the other grunts, but more power will be needed against a powerful mage. Thankfully, now she has both Tanval and Garyn Indoril on her side, and she feels like she can really do this now. She almost feels like she has a guild again.

They come face to face with the necromancer, General Serien. The battle seems to be going well at first, but then once he thinks he’s losing, Serien transforms into an abomination. A massive shape of lumpy flesh with a mace and a torch for arms, all glowing red and seething with dark magic. Theryn has to think that this is possibly the most _impractical_ undead transformation she’s seen, but it does make him very tough. And he’s probably not actually undead, anyway, as he’s completely unaffected by her control attempts.

Weapons and spells hammer down upon the abomination in between the group trying to avoid those mighty arms. Scregor takes a few hits but keeps getting right back up, completely unfazed. Finally, after a harrowing battle, General Serien collapses to the ground in defeat.

But something is wrong. Theryn senses a buildup of dark magic in his aura. He’s pouring the remainder of his mana and lifeforce into a death curse. Hastily, she starts weaving a counter-curse in hopes of neutralizing it.

She’s not fast enough. It shoots off in Garyn’s direction. She steps in its path and releases her half-wrought spell.

It’s not enough. The curse strikes her dead on and she falls to the ground in blinding pain, coughing up blood. Some dim corner of her mind thinks it’s probably a good sign that it hurts so badly. It would have simply killed her instantly had it gone off at full strength. That is, however, not much consolation, considering every organ in her body feels like it’s on fire.

“Theryn!” a voice cries out, distorted like she’s hearing it underwater.

_Why_ had she gone and done something so foolish as to step in the path of a death curse that wasn’t meant for her, anyway? She’d always known her weakness for a handsome face she barely knew would be her doom one way or another eventually. The thought almost gets a laugh out of her that just degenerates into a painful coughing fit. She can’t focus enough to get any magic off, so she’s left to nothing but prayer.

_Sheogorath, please take me…_

* * *

So long as she’s in Kragenmoor anyway, Hillyn decides to take the gate in the shrine just north of town back to the Shivering Isles for a bit. She wants to check in on Lyris and Varen. They’ve apparently taken up residence in the palace, probably for the convenience of it. Easy access to the gate room and the war map, after all. Lyris has a lute in her hands, which she sets aside when Hillyn comes in.

“You’re back!” Lyris says, her face practically lighting up as she sees Hillyn enter. “How are you doing, Hillyn? Where’s your brother?”

“He went to get a drink,” Hillyn says. “How are _you_ doing? I have no idea how to describe my current state.”

“Better,” Lyris says. “Still recovering a bit, but better. I’ve been doing some practice in the training yard to get my strength back up. Your strange friends have been surprisingly accommodating.”

“You expected the Shivering Isles to be weirder?” Hillyn asks with a wry grin.

“Oh, it’s still plenty weird, mind you,” Lyris says. “I have no idea what some of the training dummies are supposed to represent. There was a singing purple one that looked kind of like a fat Argonian… Admittedly, it did a good job of making me _want_ to hit it.”

Hillyn giggles. “Well, I’m glad to hear you seem to be doing well. Dranney and I are about to head into an area riddled by some sort of plague that turns people into zombies or something. I don’t think you’d want to go there regardless. It sounds unpleasant, but I’m pretty sure we’ll be immune to it.”

“Most likely,” Varen puts in.

“Have you had any luck in finding Sai Sahan?” Hillyn asks.

Varen shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m still working on it, but it has been difficult, even with the aid of the scrying equipment here. We may require additional assistance. I need you to locate agents of the Worm Cult and bring back their belongings, particularly magic items. They may have artifacts that provide a link to Coldharbour that can help me trace back there.”

“Where might we look?” Hillyn asks.

“I would have suggested Davon’s Watch, but it would appear that your friends have already cleared out a Worm Cult base there and taken over the place. I asked them if they had found anything that might be of use in this endeavor, but they did not, unfortunately.”

“Any other ideas, then?” Hillyn asks.

“I cannot say,” Varen says. “But this plague you mention sounds like the sort of thing they may be involved in. You would do well to keep an eye out for any connection.”

“Will do,” Hillyn says, then looks to Lyris. “Will you be alright here?”

“I’ll be fine,” Lyris says. “I may take advantage of the gate network to do some investigating of my own to see if I can pick up on any leads. They’ve set up a very convenient transportation system for those of us who can’t simply teleport all over the place, I’ll say that.”

* * *

Theryn wakes up on a beach. The pain is gone, but it’s several long minutes before she even feels like moving and opening her eyes. The sand is very, very comfortable, after all, and she’s liable to forget to wonder just where she is and why.

Right, yes, where _is_ she, anyway? She opens her eyes and looks at the sky, and gets her answer immediately. The Shivering Isles. Nowhere else she’s ever visited has streams of glowing golden motes floating through the air like this.

So. It had worked, then. Better her than Garyn, she supposes. She’s not sure what happens to Dunmer when they die, but she’s willing to bet that he hasn’t sold his soul to a demon lord. Which sounds like a terrible idea when she puts it that way but it’s _way_ too late to consider that and honestly she’s fine with this. Although she’d almost been worried that she wasn’t mad enough, but she’s pretty sure she just _thinks_ she’s sane while many of the things she’s done in her life have been patently ridiculous.

Her life. Well, so much for that. Would she have been so willing to do what she did if she hadn’t known she’d most likely wind up here in Oblivion? She usually had a pretty good sense of self-preservation, after all.

It’s safe here, though. Calm. Beautiful. She’s sorely tempted to just stay here staring at the sky and sea for a little bit longer.

“Hey!” a man’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “This is my beach!”

She just has to laugh at that. So much for peaceful. Slowly she stands up and brushes sand off of herself. “Your beach, huh? This particular stretch of beach, or the entirety of the Shivering Isles?”

“All of it!” says the deranged human man. “It’s all mine, and you can’t have it!”

Theryn continues to laugh, and goes up and claps him on the shoulder. “Do you have to deal with a lot of people washing up on the shore?”

“Well… yes,” he says. “They’re all trying to hog my beach!”

“Is this where people who’ve died usually show up?” Theryn asks. “I guess you probably don’t actually know. Do you know which way it is to New Sheog? No, wait, Sheoth. The name of the city was New Sheoth. I think.”

“No. Why would you want to go there, anyway? This beach is great! Except for other people showing up and making marks in my sand. Go on, then, if you’re going there. I need to smooth everything out again.”

“Good luck with that,” Theryn says cheerfully, and strikes off into the wilderness, leaving the crazy beach bum to his own devices.

Whatever force gave her a new body made of… whatever in Oblivion this body is made of… apparently saw fit to equip it with clothing as well. Was it something about self-image in that most people expected to be wearing clothes? She doesn’t have a mirror she can check, but her hands are the same shade of purple as before and her ears appear to be the same length, so she’s clearly a night elf and not a dark elf.

Whatever force had outfitted her with clothes apparently also saw fit to equip her with a bow as well. She has no idea what this bow is made out of and is very, very confused. And it looks like the one she’d used for much of her adventures in Outland, before her ill-fated trip to the frigid land Northrend, before joining up with her guild. It had been given to her for driving off a number of red orcs that had been bothering a hold there.

Is this real? What even is ‘real’?

Also she finds that magic book she’d been given in her pack. She pulls it out along with the stylus that came along with it, kind of wishing Moony had bothered to tell her how it works before running off. She can send messages with this thing, right? That’s what Moony and Siris were doing halfway across Stonefalls, after all. She flips through it and finds a page with a message to her on it.

Moony: Theryn? Are you alright? I mean, are you somewhere you can respond to this message?

She’s not sure how Rispy managed to get word back to him so quickly. Theryn chuckles at how awkward it must be to ask someone who’d died if they’re alright, and scratches out a message of her own below it.

Theryn: Yeah, I’m fine. By some definition of ‘fine’. I’m in the Shivering Isles. Not sure where exactly, but I’ll head for New Sheoth.

Moony: No, stay put. Or somewhere in the open. We’ll come pick you up. Can you give a general location?

Theryn: Near the beach in Mania. I can get back to the beach easily enough, there was just a guy there yelling at me to stop making footprints in ‘his’ sand.

Moony: Just ignore him. We’ll be right over.

The bow turns out to be useful when she runs across some overly aggressive wildlife. She just had to laugh at that. Even when dead, things are still trying to kill her. Can she even die again? Most likely she’d just wash up on the shore of the Shivering Isles like she did the first time. She manages to get back to the beach without further incident, though. The beach bum is now far enough away that he doesn’t notice her to yell at her again, at least.

It doesn’t take long for an ornate flying carpet to descend out of the shimmering sky, bearing with it Moony, Siris, and Rispy.

“There you are!” Siris exclaims. “About time you respawned.”

“What do you mean ‘about time’?” Theryn asks.

“It was nine days before you responded,” Rispy says.

“I don’t know if that’s a typical amount of time or what,” Moony says. “Anyway, climb on. We’ll fill you in on the way back.”

Theryn hops on and takes a seat in the middle of the carpet, and settles in for the ride. “So what happened after I, you know, died?”

“Garyn stole that weird coral power source thing we got from Vivec’s Antlers,” Rispy says. “Something about wanting to avenge your death. He ran off and I’m not sure what stupid plan he’s got brewing now.”

Theryn groans softly. “While I’m touched that he cares, it’s completely unnecessary and just likely to cause more problems. I need to get back there to show him I got better, don’t I. He’s not going to be convinced of anything else.”

“Hopefully he’ll be convinced when he sees you with his own eyes,” Moony says. “We’ve collected some Skyshards and have them in storage now. You can use one of them to reattune yourself to Nirn.”

“Easy immortality, just sell your soul…” Theryn says with a chuckle. “You’d think normally it would be harder.”

“No, most people are just hesitant about selling their souls,” Siris says with a smirk.


End file.
